I have begun to write fiction again, for the first time in years and years and years. Actually, I cannot remember the last time that I wrote new fiction, so it may have been more recently than that, but I know I have had a nagging feeling every time I set down to write something that I should be writing fiction instead, and that I have been having that feeling for years and years and years. Anyway, it is just a little thing, and not suitable for posting on ME, so it might see the light of day here, or I might just use it in the context it is being developed for.
Category: Writing
Something old
I have a whiteboard in my sitting room. At the top it says “What do you want?”. For a long time, the only other thing on the board was “rest”. Over time, I found myself more and more able to rest. my insomnia has passed, perhaps for a season, perhaps for longer, and I am able to get a good night’s sleep. Then, after considering it for a long time before putting it up, Saturday morning I put the word “write” on the board.
Later that day, as I was walking someplace else with yard tools on my mind, I passed a yard sale and I saw a typewriter of a style that … very much appeals to me. I was able to purchase it with the last of the cash in my wallet at the time, $14. It works, and with a replacement ribbon, should be a wonderful tool. I have already written a page or two on it. It feels good.
It is an old Remington Portable Model 5.
Midnight Snack
I feel like I must have something to say. Every time I try to think of something to put here, the only things I can think of are passing distractions; the new REM album or the movies I watched this weekend or the number of lunches I had today. Nothing of value. Nothing with substance. Someone remarked to me recently that I “don’t know how to have a conversation that isn’t serious.” I said something like “I never understood small talk” and went back to talking about what was on my heart and mind. I think they just sighed and tried to pay attention.
Is that what you are doing now? Sighing, trying to pay attention as I type miles of text about my own trivial experiences? I thought at first that the idea of an audience would just encourage me to write, but I think now it scares me. Some of the people who know that they can find me here… I don’t know… I just feel like I can’t be myself when they’re around. I have no way of knowing whether they’re around, either.
Look, if you don’t really care, why are you still reading? Is this some form of rubbernecking? Are you hoping to see a glimpse of someone else’s pain, and willing to wade through everything else I spew out? If you do care, why did you let them remove the nearby Taco Bell?