Philosophy of the Keexzus, No. 84: Prospectus for the 2nd Novel

from Santanero Zine Issue No. 6.

Writing poetry the other day, I came to realize how important the other half of the equation has become. I mean, fiction has taken a backseat to all other forms. And even in these short sentences, I have already begun writing and rewriting and rewording what I feel has become an overly aggressive form of writer’s block, which, to be honest, doesn’t really exist. It’s a construction of the mind. To say, “I don’t know what to write about,” or anything closely related is complete and utter bullshit. One is always already thinking about something. It’s more apropos to say, “I have failed to make a decision.”

Now having said the aforementioned, I can say I will begin the 2nd novel that I have been attempting to construct for the past year now. I don’t have to choose one thing to write about. I mean, everything is everything I want to write about. I realize that now. The 2nd novel won’t be constricted by formatting or literary expectations. I will conclude everything as can be shown as can be written in a clearly honest manner, which means anything and everything.

The 1st novel was an experiment shaped by influence. It became fragments sculpted in the shaper’s eye. It was all the pieces of life falling into being, into place, and, for that matter, out of place. I tried to write what I thought would matter, that I would be able to find elements of my own life revealed.

The 2nd novel, I hope, will breakthrough where previously the 1st had failed. Mainly, I will continue to make mistakes I made with the 1st, sans looking for an answer, any answer in the pages exacting only the matters on stage. The self will not be the center. And even with that, the prospectus still feels radically incomplete– maybe because the 2nd novel will be incomplete, will be de-centered, will be a flawed attempt at the ideal just out of reach.

As for categorization, everything and all. Here, there, and now: The postmodern heart, bleeding, clawing, breaking. And, still, something more. The lyrical threading of everyday life.