Lost from writing of exhaustion, what is there left but exhaustion? I’ve recovered myself just enough to … what? Nothing to write, nothing to be written, and not for lack of urgency. When was urgency ever enough? There must be something to write about, and more than just the desire to write – that is not a theme; it is not theme enough.
Content: that’s what’s required. But what kind of content? From where is it to come? Nothing that is not given out of itself, that was the rule: writing was to draw itself from itself, like a conjurer’s scarf. And when nothing comes? Write about this or that book – write about an author, a philosopher. Address yourself to the affairs of the world. But that’s not what I want, not here. That is for the day – for the morning after dawn and the long afternoon. And in the evening after the pub? And in the early morning?
No content; nothing to say. Should I take a break? But what happens when you unmoor exhaustion from writing? At least let writing return to itself, if only to mark what cannot be written. Or should it be allowed to run into nothing – to disperse itself without marking itself, ink running into water?
Lars Iyer's Blog 