The Kernel, The Soul - Let Us

Context Is Everything. Dress Me Up And See. I'm A Carnival Barker, An Auctioneer, A Downtown Performance Artist, A Speaker In Tongues, A Senator Drunk On Filibuster. I've Got Tourette's. My Mouth Won't Quit, Though Mostly I Whisper Or Subvocalize Like I'm Reading Aloud, My Adam's Apple Bobbing, Jaw Muscle Beating Like A Miniature Heart Under My Cheek, The Noise Suppressed, The Words Escaping Silently, Mere Ghosts Of Themselves, Husks Of Empty Breath And Tone.

The Level At Which My Ocd Enters My Writing Process Isn't That I Slap The Keyboard - It's More Along The Lines Of A Compulsive Need To Swap Syllables Around, Rework Words And Sentences - I Revise For The Pleasure And Satisfaction Of It, Rather Than Out Of A Sense Of Duty.

Reading And Writing Are The Same Thing; It's Just One's The More Active And The Other's The More Passive. They Flow Into Each Other.

Yet I'm Making A Book And I'm Going To Care Immensely About What Words Get Bound In The Pages, And I Want The Object To Look Good. I Won't Believe In It And It Won't Be Real To Me Until There's A Finished Book I Can Hold.

However Appalling To Consider, However Tedious To Enact, Every Novel Requires Furniture, Whether It Is To Be Named Or Unnamed, For The Characters Will Be Unable To Remain In Standing Position For The Duration Of The Story.