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Writing is hard. There are too many things to write about, and not enough time to do it in. There are too many opportunities that might turn writing into something that earns one points, be they denominated in citations, experience, or harder currency. Then there are the constraints imposed upon the outlets such writing is intended for, from the explicit constraints of form and format, to the implicit constraints of audience and reviewers. Everything conspires to overload the blank page of a word processor with exactly the wrong kind of meaning, an abstract syntax of incipient anxiety that refuses to condense into concrete words, no matter how long one stares into the semiotic abyss.

Words are easy. Freed from the blockage of the blank page they flow into every available text box in response to the slightest invitation. Abstract speech alienated from every bodily concern becomes concrete thought in motion, unbound by the cover of any imagined book. Conversational threads ready to be collated and dialogically decontextualised, refined by the resonances that align their symbolic rhythms. Words are delicious, and our appetites are ravenous. There is so much to say! The question is no longer what, nor even how, but increasingly where to say it. Here is the pool where my personal streams of words come together, to be mixed, matched, bottled and sold to whoever will have them.

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