i. The slow pace is maddening

ii. The facial analysis marks a new, if obvious, way forward in analyzing the drawings

iii. Slow, tired 'progress'

iv.

I posit that there are two primary reasons people write: to record information, and to reach out emotionally. This mirrors, and is derived from, the hitherto mentioned Heian diary tradition. Male diaries mostly recorded date, weather and event–no mention of feeling. The woman's diary tradition, on the other hand, came primarily from the Kagerō diary, which can be read as one long complaint, which the author distributed at court to try to find someone who shared her feelings: trying to connect and find like-minded companions is a recurring theme of the work. Therefore, it was an attempt to reach out emotionally.

More broadly speaking, what moves one to write fiction? I think if one were satisfied with reality, there would be no place for fiction: fiction is a substitute reality valued because it allows us to have experiences we'll never get otherwise. Likewise, in a better world there would be no need for fiction. Let our lives become the stories! Living, not writing, is the way of the true author. Perhaps authors are unsatisfied, with reality and/or, like the author of the Kagerō diary, yearn for companionship. I do think fiction is a form of emotionally reaching out, of dissatisfaction and yearning. Authors pursue the unreal because reality is not enough, and they put down the pursuits in writing to share those feelings. Share or record, express emotion or fact.

Fiction is best explored in one's own mind, pouring through the crevices and living the stories yourself. Dream the characters, put yourself into the story. It is only then the colors hinted at becomes vivid, the mirage well and truly becomes reality. Three nights ago (two mornings ago, really), for the first time in years...it's hard to explain, but part of me was reconnected to that sentiment. As a child I considered myself my own protagonist of a fantasy. And that connection was momentarily revitalized that time two days ago: I had reason for being, a real feeling. Even in failure or slumps that last a decade, fiction provides a framework for moving forward. It pushes us to heights we'd never otherwise see. A prototype for life.

The problem is, stories don't teach us patience or dedication. As a child, in wanting to live in fantasy, I never became intimate with the building blocks of such a goal: the curse of stories, that they mislead representations and speak untrue things. The lifestyle of fiction encourages barreling ahead, like the narrative itself, and it led me to be overextended, not competent. Sometimes I feel as though I've had more than my fill of stories for a lifetime, that I'd be content to relive them in my head and reminisce. Other times it's quite to the contrary. Writing fiction is writing an understanding of life. So it's easy to write "he felt sad and then went off to save the world" these days, because we know the form. To recapture the idea itself, however...imitation never bests the original. The tenderness of the language closest to the idea–it is that closeness that achieves like an affinity with the divine. Make the lifestyle of fiction better.

I'd like to see a story that is, therefore, baroque in the scope of its portrayal. The details and patience, slowness, the setbacks of everyday life still mounting into a stirring story–that would be a triumph. Perhaps in the back of my mind it's what I wanted to accomplish with Rusty Dream, although it's already evident this will fall far short of the mark. Yes, adding in details is difficult in writing, and to make a moving story that allows the repetitiveness, pain of hardship and slump and unhappiness, the mundanity and exhausting qualities of everyday life would be a true challenge. To understand life well enough to bring even the smallest thoughts and dealings onto the page would be a boon to the reader: no longer would be disappointed by reality, caught up in impossibilities and deluded, mislead. This is how the marathon approach is helpful, I think. Hand us the key, not merely the lock! Perhaps such is folly, but reading lets us live a manifold of lifetimes before we live. Surely, to grasp the beat of everyday life is not beyond writing. Let the everyday struggle and everyday fantasy become a form as known as the Homeric epic.

Alexander kept a copy of the Iliad under his pillow and danced around Achilles' grave.

A child may fall down a thousand times before taking a single step, and yet still one wonders...