He’s programming. Typing in code, and out come graphs of colourful lines. Like kite strings. Like the tube map. You tick a box, and the lines change – the colours, the contours. They tell stories I can’t read. You can feel the concentration in the air around him. You can almost see it, this magic fortress beneath the screen, a castle built of air. Precarious, swaying, strong.
My own stories feel rather shell-shocked. There’s an article I want to write. The concept of making a seven thousand word article from a twenty four thousand word chapter is simpler than doing it is proving to be. (Even though the chapter itself needs to shed at least 5000 words.) I want to squeeze all my ideas in. Ahem. No. I just need to choose the best ones. The newest ones. And streamline them. Cut down on my examples. I must do it. It will be good for me.
I’m searching for a formula. There must be one. There must be several. It took me so long to crack the chapter formula, and now I look back longingly at all that lovely word length – such space to breathe! An article needs to be sharp and clever and gleaming. Perhaps I want too much from it. I think I need a point of view.