Jacqueline Doyle

Yeah, underground. I'm not claiming any great originality here. I know I'm not the first writer in a hole who thinks he's got some big message that needs to be, absolutely must be, heard. High on weed, tripping to the soulful sounds of Satchmo. Ducking the Russian winter to hibernate. There were anti-heroes before me. And underground writing, lots of it. I haven't started my magnum opus yet, but I've got plenty of tradition to tap into when I'm ready. Genet, Burroughs, Bukowski. That gang. They'll get me going.

I'm already soliciting advance blurbs from my old writing teachers and fellow MFA'ers who've made good. Subterranean. Substantial. Soaring. Sensitive. Soporific. Hey, a little alliteration never hurt. I'm not sure about soporific, something I got from that jealous dickhead Eddie in Graduate Fiction Writing, but the reading public won't know what it means anyway. Soporific. Maybe I'll include it in the first sentence.

Call me Soporific. I'll have a double following me, or I'll be sleepwalking in pursuit of my shadow, or following a sleepy white . . . No, been done, and way too long. Way too long.

How about this. One sentence per page, the same sentence for a full chapter. ("Simultaneously startling and soporific," the critics will trumpet. "Archly Steinian.") The font will get bigger and bigger, and eventually it will be just one letter on each page, 40 to 50 pages to spell out the sentence, which will change when you get to the end of it, with small-print footnoted commentary that gets smaller and smaller. Footnotes in four languages. Midway through the "book," my version of Starry Night (Go Van Gogh): a chapter of randomly distributed asterisks. I'm just playing with ideas right now, but believe me, this is going to be way avant of the avant garde. Cutting edge, conceptually weighty, but a fast read. The public wants something short and punchy. You know, online flash, brief burble on Twitter, a hook, a handle. A brand. That's the word of the day. A writer needs a brand and a platform, a blog with followers to build up demand for the brand name, and a pitch for a publisher, who needs to identify a niche in the market.

"Underground writer Will Wilson already boasts a cult following among those in the know." The niche I've been considering. I'm thinking of switching to a pen name, and Will Wilson has a nice ring to it, don't you think? On the other hand I want to be sure that every one of those obtuse workshop teachers, every one of those pitiful, puerile students in my old creative writing classes, knows it's me, so maybe I should stick to my real name, unremarkable as it is. As for the cult following, that will be the result of my underground blog, still under construction. And strategically timed releases on Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, other writers' blogs, and select online venues featuring the latest interactive media. That's just the beginning. Naturally I'm making plans for "building the buzz." Chat groups, message boards, writers' forums, Fictionaut, Goodreads, Gather. Neatly organized FAQs for reading groups out there in the suburbs: 1.) What do the changing font sizes suggest about the magnitude of the author's vision? 2.) What is the significance of the multilingual metacommentary? 3.) What insights into the post-postmodern condition emerge from the gaps in the text, for example on page 52? (There will be no page 52, by the way. I'll be skipping selected page numbers.) Carefully placed interviews in literary columns, self-interviews posted on Youtube, appearances on late night talk shows, Jay, David, Conan, Jimmy. Advance reviews (by authors returning favors to my publisher), a virtual book tour, followed by an actual book tour. I'm thinking I'll dress in black, wear shades, get a buzz cut (or is that too yesterday?). Sign books for my fans with some kind of signature phrase (still mulling over that one) and an indecipherable scribble.

Possible signature phrase: Paratextual paralysis rules.

Or maybe something like: Go Rimbaud, flee flambeaux.

I'll have to buy my name as a web domain address, of course. I just did some Googling. My name is taken, willwilson.com is some photographer. I'll have to come up with something else. Post an artful anti-bio, a head shot (maybe just the back of my head, or is that too Miles Davis?). Remaining incognito is probably best after all. There's something to be said for the anonymity of pseudonymity. Mystery helps. And I'm more comfortable in the dark. Always have been.

So here I sit in "The Hole," a.k.a. my basement studio apartment, the computer screen glowing in the dark, waiting for that crucial first line to appear. Conditions for creation couldn't be better. It's pretty much quiet. Every once in a while I hear the furnace roar to life, the clang of radiators, some scurrying nocturnal creature in the walls, or the whoosh of the plumbing as someone upstairs flushes a toilet. Maybe that blonde in 3B, who probably shits golden turds out of her perfect pink ass. Or that fat guy on the second floor, whose turds I don't even want to think about. Why the super refuses to do anything about that cretin's fucking yappy dog is beyond me. I mean some of us have to sleep during the day, but that's clearly not a priority for Señor Rodriguez. Tomorrow morning he'll be out there banging the trashcans, arguing in rapid fire Spanish with Señora Rodriguez, who'll be hanging out the front window, screeching at him to hurry up. Why can't they yell in their own kitchen? But I'm getting distracted.

Focus.

I've had some problems in the past starting things. What genius hasn't? Some issues with finishing things too. Who doesn't have an unfinished symphony or two? It's going to be different now that I have a plan.

I dwell in the dark, plumbing the depths of my imagination, preparing to sound just the right note, searching about for the