I’m nearing the end of 2666, and it’s difficult for me to find the right words to describe this novel made up of 5 distinct parts that seem, on the surface, to be unrelated, and yet somehow coincide perfectly – relentless? persistent? unflinching? in its pursuit of the unspeakable, in unraveling human empathy gone numb. I don’t know yet how it will end, but if there’s one thing I’ve figured out after some 700 pages or so, it’s not a matter of some big mystery being solved, or the revelation of some great epiphany, or close to an epic journey; it serves (for me at least) as a quiet outcry for the forgotten, the faceless, the ignored, and as a testament to the madness that lies just beneath the surface if you peer deep enough…
The Hungry Artist
As a writer, teacher, and artist, I'm interested in exploring the ever-changing landscape in literacies: the digital, multimodal, and how creative writers, artists, and teachers are navigating these changes in their practices.
The Hungry Artist 