Hey there, lovelies! It’s good to see you again. I’m going to be posting a series of works from a Creative Writing class I took last semester. I think the course gave me the opportunity to really work my craft and stretch. At the end of each work I’ll talk a little bit about the inspiration, process, and subtle meanings in the work. I hope you enjoy this one!
If I am smart, I catch my daydream before it floats away into the abyss. I station myself at my computer, chaining myself to the keys as I begin to think about typing. I sit and think about it so meticulously, resetting the font and fixing my margins before I settle into my desk chair to propose moving away from my desk in a whirlwind. I spin round and round in my swirling swivel chair until I hit the edge of my bed, picking up my laptop and propping up my feet to type. I taste test a few words and phrases, frantically spitting them back out, the stark blue-white of my blank page beginning to burn my retinas. Finally I discover my fault.
I need a theme for this piece. How could I possibly imagine writing another word of this dribble if I can’t even imagine when its published and inevitably adapted into a film? I push my blank page to the side and open a slew of photo editors, not-so-quickly whipping up the future book cover of my New York Times bestseller. I put it on the blank page proudly until another blank page follows suit.
I begin to look around desperately for a sign, listening closely to the faintest whisper of an idea. My eyes land on a blank space, a pair of ethereal eyes materializing before me. They’re followed by a faintly shaped mouth and mess of hair, a full ambiguous body holding it all together. I narrow my eyes to look more closely at them, their familiarity unnerving. I move to name them and stop. This person can’t be named in such a haphazard manner.
I turn back to my laptop and pull up a deep catalog of names , the meanings and origins attached. My eyes sway between the list and their face, more details forming with each name rejected. Finally I land on something good enough, landing in the grey space between generic and difficult to pronounce. I test the name on my tongue, the slew of letters rolling smoothly off my tongue like warm butter. The figure is delighted by the sound, their ambiguous form making a joyful gesture.
I return to my blank page, the bane of my existence. My newly named figure walks over to me to bear witness to the lack of commotion. We both stare at the glowing screen for a while in deep conceptual thought. The figure of ambiguity leans down, bringing a nearly silent whisper to my ear. My fingers stretch around the keys as quickly as I can, trying to catch every word they have to say. The words are jumbled and messy at first, but with each new letter we begin to find their voice and untangle the kinks in their story. Soon I have a shiny picture of their face on my nightstand, their smile as clear as day.
My struggle with the prompt (write about writing) was that my personal relationship to writing has never had anything to do with writing. It’s always been about the interesting people I come across or the characters swimming around in my subconscious. I tried to portray that relationship’s importance the best I could. Writing for me is also tied to my intensive daydreaming as a way to capture those ideas onto paper.