Ecstasy And Victory

I can only guess at how it happened, even though this is the second time such a thing has happened, that is to say: my book finished itself. I didn't write the ending, the book wrote the ending, it's as simple as that--all of yesterday's words and experiences poured themselves inside me, and I worried and worried, meanwhile, thinking that I was only halfway there, and that I'd never finish the book in time, or only deliver something half-assed by the end of next month, something I'd never be satisfied with--

but those words and experiences rushed inside me and revolved inside me like a thousand planets turning around a thousand stars, and my sleep was more fitful than it's ever been, I woke coughing and did not know why, I spilled water everywhere and did not know why, did not know what was wrong, but then I read myself to sleep and slept again, and woke quite excitedly without knowing why, went through the morning's motions quite excitedly without quite knowing why, and simply sat down to write, fueled by a good breakfast and a good shower and good music (I spent the night thinking of Ciro Kayna, I spent the morning listening to Ciro Kayna again and again and again, enraptured with the njarka, one-stringed voice-of-the-earth), and plenty of good strong coffee, I sat down and started typing the book (150 pages, I thought, the limit, with 150 to go--over the limit set for me by my advisors with their tyrannical brilliance!), and all the experiences of the past day, all the words--

Nabokov's Pale Fire plus the endless pain of unrequired unrequited love plus the endless pleasure of required requited lust plus an hour of critiquing our own writing plus the inspiration thereof plus three hours of dinner with wonderful Iranians plus an hour of rehearsing--mix it all together, throw in 21 years of life, add a pantheon of muses singing in my ears, put a computer in front of me and give me a few hours to type--and you have yourself an ending that comes out of nowhere, a good solid ending for a good solid first draft of an epic that will resound, amusingly enough, unbelievably enough, throughout the ages--Max Thrax.

You don't have to believe me, and I know you don't, but it's true--this is one of many works, great works, that will carry my name to the end of time.