Everything I wrote, beginning with the first word of the first sentence, is contributing to the narrative, is propelling it to wherever it will end.

Although, to be precise, I’ve already started, I cannot say this narrative isn’t underway.

I must admit I don’t know how to begin, or where to start, or in which direction to go once I have started.

4

All of the novels by Samuel Beckett are narrated by characters who’d understand this.

Meaning, the absence of anything to complain about might be something itself to complain about, looked at from one perspective.

Though if there is nothing to complain about, in a given situation, you can be sure I will find something.

Which I guess is nothing to complain about.

Or, anyway, if I am funny it’s not because I intend to be, but because the situation I’m describing is funny. So that the funniness seems to rub off on me. 

The problem is I’m not a very funny person, but instead am rather serious.

Or unless, anyway, it was able to not be academic about those things, and instead be interesting and funny.

Maybe the book will be about divorce and Catholicism, after all, as heavy as those subjects sound. Though I myself wouldn’t want to read such a book, unless it was about other things too.

3

And then another over there, after that one. And so on.

As soon as I get settled on one idea, I see another one over there.

In this respect I’m not unlike a frog who’s always looking for another lily pad to jump onto.

One annoying thing about me, as a writer, is that I’m unable to stay focused for very long on any particular topic, and prefer to digress from one thing to the next, even if whatever it was that first had my attention was worth spending some time with.

But yes…I don’t quite know where this narrative is going, so I’d ask that you’d be patient, and put up with my meanderings, as I try to figure out what it will be ‘about’, or what it wants to take for its subject, if in fact it is going to have a subject at all.

2

Look at that, not five sentences in, and already I’m making a fool of myself. I loathe writing, really, even though I can’t bring myself to stop doing it. I’m sure there’s a term for that in psychology.