ziomarios

Keith has spent the last four years writing his first novel. Some writers do all of their initial work by hand, filling notebook after notebook with prose hastily scribbled in blue pen ink or black. Other scribes opt to peck out words on a typewriter, whether out of a stubborn unwillingness to modernize or a love of irony expressed through their use of vintage technology. Keith prefers to sit with his laptop warming his thighs.

The words spill onto his computer screen as quick as his imagination and fingers will allow, the hours sometimes flying by, day becoming night becoming dawn in a sitting. He lives for the adrenaline that comes with pounding out a thousand or two words in one stretch. His closest relationships are with coffee and insomnia.

Some people can keep their manifestos confined to their hard drives through the months and years of writing. Not Keith. Every week or two, he prints off a fresh copy of his entire work, goes through and edits it by hand. Environmental activists would picket Keith’s house if they knew how many forests he’d leveled by now, even if paper salesmen can now afford to give a better Christmas to their children.

And then there are the print costs. By now, Keith’s gone through enough Canon printer cartridges to fill a warehouse, and the majority of the birthday gifts he receives are print-related. Employees of his regular office supply store practically give each other high-fives when Keith walks in needing another round of ink cartridges. He’s like a junkie needing a fix. He’s foregone food before and other necessities in favor of new Samsung toner.

He’s written 60,000 words now, his