~the peculiar pastimes of lucy luddite~

August 14th, 2009

Within a modest house, hung from a stately tree, upon which the leaves had just begun their autumnal turning, toiled a diligent and hopeful ecrivantrist, some say is called Lucy Luddite.

All day and all night she snipped and shredded her mountains of oddly-sized European note paper, chopping 22,000 words which fluttered down upon the heads of unsuspecting passers-by.

She carefully gathered the remaining 53,000 words, arranged them into pleasing patterns and held them still with paste.

As she dragged her glue sticks down to the dregs,
she distractedly muttered her (something like a) mantra,
“Random Access is overrated!”

Flowers kept her company, as did sea shells gathered on her mother’s beach, in a far, far away land.

.
.
.
.
.
Sometimes,
the
sun
would
stop
by.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

Outside, leaves turned their eyes to Autumn. Whirly-gig seeds prepared to gig and whirl.

Eight glue sticks came and eight glue sticks went.

Over every flat surface including the floor mysterious piles had formed,
the meaning of which was known only to her, and even then, only sometimes.

click to expand.

She sorted them carefully into a rather plain notebook.

She paused.

Through her wide-swung birdhouse windows: chatter, plate clatter, Django-ish guitar and violin.

Also, the moon.
For a moment she felt like Isadora Duncan.

Then she returned to work, fretting to herself, “Who ever heard of a 53,000 word novel!”