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id="_idTextSpan35411" class="CharOverride-5" style="position:absolute;top:982.55px;left:0px;letter-spacing:-1.04px;">with obstacles butting in where they didn’t belong, the writer not having the luxury of the runner who knows beforehand where to expect them and accordingly ad-justs his pace, was undoubtedly a milestone. A thresh-old – the diagnosis that the desperation of not having anything to write about, which frequently got hold of him in front of a blank screen, was not that much dif-ferent from the fear of a lover, before intercourse, of not getting a hard-on. A landmark – when he stopped taking it so seriously, like in a class where no one takes the bait anymore of the whining student before the test that, supposedly, doesn’t know shit, and is going, as a result, to hand in a blank page but then ends up writing something down and never fails the course.

The unquestionable turning point though was his cer-tainty that he would write the novel, be it laughable or ridiculous, come hell or high water, a certainty that was anything but given since, before acquiring it, the sure-ness that there was no way it would ever happen never left him for a single moment. A breakthrough – when he stopped shaking, not because he didn’t care any-more, but because it was becoming all the less likely

+ but accepting the fact

Simos Panopoulos - Look at that

144

that maybe, somewhere, he would stumble across some of his more brilliant ideas which, considering them to be exclusively his, he would stuff into the novel.

A step forward, especially to the point where he was drifting in limbo, was again when he ascertained that if the making up of a first sentence which he would then craft like needlework until he completed the chapter and after that the novel, was everything - starting in its absence with a first word to which the rest would come to stick to like a fly to honey (they’d be of the clingy type) was half of everything. A leap forward – the awareness of how pointless it was to lament over the fact that he had started writing a little too late to have enough time to mature as a writer since the con-ditions had not been ripe yet for him to have start-ed earlier. Crossing the Rubicon – the thought that to think as obsessively about the novel as an insomniac about sleeping, in addition to not thinking about it at all was, to say the least, completely thoughtless, while to sit willy-nilly in front of the text from early morn-ing, in the same way the other would be counting sheep, at night, the former because it was suggested by successful writers, the latter, because of conven-tional wisdom, was reckless. A point of reference, fi-nally, – the conviction that it did not matter if his

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