Not the song by the wonderful Radiohead. This is a reference to words for the second novel, which have been creeping daily, like desertification of a prairie. Close to 3,000 now.
At what point does a fragment become a scrap? A scrap, a little pile? What I have feels like it is shaping itself well. As though it is being build from chemical instructions, from a suddenly-discovered segment of the brain that organises narrative and delivers it, like insulin, in a steady stream.
It would be nice if it kept going, if I could trust it not to fail to build up, coagulate into something with a frame.
Here are the first cells, as they stand now, for what it is worth:
The first thing she purchased, even before the ticket, was a cantina – water, she reasoned, being the resource most necessary to desert living. The next thing she bought was a bright yellow sundress, for confidence. She took these items back to her apartment and placed them on the bed. The cantina had fleur-de-lis painted on it which could not be matched to any lily she knew, were static black against the silver. That was the problem with symbolic flowers; what ever the codified meaning, they had nothing on living botany.