When I write--text or hypertext, fiction or theory--I
must set aside a
certain space in which to work. I use the word "space" here to
group several
kinds of space: physical, temporal, and cognitive. The writing
space is not merely a desk or office where I keep my manuscripts
and disks and
pens and computer. It is also a space of time set aside from day to
day life: from my job, from my
wife, from all people and activities other than the work, the
writing. But all the time and (physical) space in the world would
be to no avail if I could not set aside one further space, a kind
of internal solitude--a meditation perhaps--to which I turn to
recapture the vision I had when last I wrote, or to see what lies
ahead. This space is a little hard to describe, but it is there
that writing, as I have quoted Walter Ong elsewhere, transforms human consciousness