The Glitch Is the Machine is what happens when a creative writing dissertation eats its own author and spits out a ghost named Rowan Black. What begins as a critical inquiry into identity, technology, and authorship goes full tilt into literary hallucination: annotated fragments, lost files, coffee-stained poems recovered from the guts of forgotten libraries, and digital noise dressed up like theory.

Black is a figment, a construct, a poetic poltergeist built from half-memories and corrupted metadata. The Corvids Collective—fictional archivists or maybe cultists—try to piece him together, but the pieces refuse to stay still. What emerges is part archive, part exorcism, part philosophical graffiti scrawled on the walls of a collapsing interface. I didn’t just write about the glitch—I rode it straight into the teeth of the machine.

There’s no safe angle of approach. This isn’t literary criticism with footnotes and fences—it’s a fever dream built from existential residue and academic disobedience. The boundary between author and artifact dissolves. Rowan Black might be the subject, or the method, or the aftermath. Maybe all three. Maybe neither.