Ufuk Karaca

@karacaufuk.com

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writer (slowly) of one novel. building for authors and editors: DraftProse.com. Berlin. some essays at karacaufuk.com/thoughts

a poem as follows: the moment you slip its “he thinks life is happening to him” what’s not seen is everything you hadn’t let slip the life that you made and the mistakes brushed off and the trials and errors and long nights at home crying on the floor but it comes out of nowhere when it all tumbles down at once and they talk “he thinks the world revolves around him. life is happening to him. he doesn’t put in the effort to make life happen” and its not even the words that sting its the guilt the guilt of thinking that I let them perceive me as helpless and naive I can’t even be down without checking out their perspectives of who I am and who they think I should be
Group chat between characters Yza, Dyr and the author. Author: The #WIPSnips word of the day is "title", but it seems that we don't have it in the book. I'd like to take both of your opinions on how you would relate to this topic. Of course vibes, synonyms, variations are all fine. Dyr: A title—yes, well, that's precisely the architecture of the façade I've constructed, isn't it? I spin narratives, recalibrate perspectives, flood zones with data until the original truth becomes white noise, and in doing so I wear whatever designation serves the moment: strategist, problem-solver, the man with the perfect solution. But a title is also a kind of script, you see—a designation that tells your hands what to do when your mind is too broken to formulate an original thought. The real question isn't what title one bears, but whether one can distinguish between the label and the hollow resonance beneath it. What would Yza say—that a title is just another variable in an equation, something to be measured and mapped? Yza: A title assumes ownership of something. It suggests you've claimed a space, a role, an identity that's yours to keep. I've never been comfortable with that kind of permanence. I prefer to move through the world without the weight of a name attached to me—Yza, Alice, whatever label gets affixed, it's always felt like someone else's assessment rather than something I've chosen. Dyr wears his titles like armor, I think. I prefer to leave mine blank, at least in here, where I can still observe from the distance. It's safer that way.
Excerpt from the book as follows: She turned away from the glass, moving through an apartment that looked exactly as it had the day she signed the lease. It had some textbook charm to it, but not much warmth. It was a statement of wealth, one that she was trying to prove herself a worthy owner of. No furniture was brought over from her parents' apartment. This was her blank page, suffering only from the problem of remaining blank, but at the least not from the vague shadows of scribbled pages before it. She dressed quickly in dark, utilitarian layers, wrapping a heavy scarf around her neck before stepping out into the stairwell. In absence of time or energy to treat herself to the nicer things in life, she had, for the first time, invested into her wardrobe instead. Her utilitarian layers were making it known that they were built with a purpose. Her scarf was heavy not only in mass but also in appearance. The twenty-something skirts and just as many shirts organized in a chaotic manner in her wardrobe were all making a statement that she hope would portray her as nicely held-together. A zipper that was just too shiny, a stitch that was too intentional, a fabric that carried weight. Shame she only had the office to wear them to.
a cork board with red rope connecting miscellaneous pinned documents and pictures
A passage is depicted in the picture and reads as follows: The barista, as weird as it felt to call him that, a man whose hair had matched the shades of the city insofar as she had known him, was one of the few people in the city with whom she felt a connection. He knew her better than most in his absence of communication, and the small bench in a nook in the back would usually be reserved for her writing sessions on Sunday mornings, again with no words exchanged. Down in the subterranean hum of the rail station, the air was thick with the smell of ozone and wet wool. As she stepped onto the silently but diligently populated railcar and claimed a sliver of space near the doors, she reflexively let her features harden into the arrogant look she had perfected in college. Once, it had been a shield designed to make it slightly harder for people to approach her. It was old armor, but here, surrounded by tired commuters staring blankly into the fog as the railcar surfaced above ground, it felt less like a defense and more like a uniform. She fit in. She was secure. She was entirely unbothered. And as she watched the muted city roll by through the rain-streaked glass, she ignored the hollow, yawning quiet settling in the center of her chest where a rebel lay ashen.