Dad Says He Saw You at the Mall

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I always start out with nothing but intent when I go to make a book. I always already want to make a book long before I have any words written to go in the book. I never have any idea what I want the book to be about before I make the book. And I continue to have no idea what I want the book to be about until I am finished making the book; and even then, when I am finished making the book, I still don’t know what I want the book to be about.

For me, making a book is the same as trying to find out what the book will be about.

Making a book is the same as trying to find out what it means to make a book.

~

You can feel intent without having a specific intention. You can be intent without knowing what you intend.

In making a book, I am exploring the implications of my intentions within the context of creating a novel. What are the implications of attempting to bend raw, empty, intent, utterly devoid of content, into form? I begin in intention. But intention crumbles. In the face of the world around me, intention falters. It flounders. It fills with faults.

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