He hadn't written anything in nearly a year. No. That wasn't entirely true. He had written something. Many somethings. Many somethings tantamount to nothing. They were no more than writing exercises. He would start with an idea, a wonderful idea, a brilliant beginning and it would go nowhere after a day. His flirtatious romance with inspiration was just that. His obsession with her kept him in withdrawal when she left and his sense of direction deteriorated. In his languor, he wondered why he kept to such deleterious circumstances. And then, she returned.
The shadow was not his own, not the one on the carpet, the good carpet. It was the shadow of the frame on his desk with the picture smiling at him. No, it wasn't at him, not his present self, or perhaps it was. He couldn't remember. Then a sound, drip drip. The swivel chair was firm but he felt a hard spot when he leaned forward. It would still be good for a couple more years. And then drip drip. The window was dirty. It needed to be cleaned on a ladder from the outside or perhaps leaning from the inside. And then, drip drip. The floorboards creaked. It needed some baby powder. Butt powder. He laughed to himself. And then, he closed the faucet tightly.
As one may have noticed, I don't bring much complexity to my sentences in diction or structure. Of course, sometimes there is a bit of wordplay, but that doesn't count toward anything. Says Krusty, "Hey jerk! Puns are lazy writing." (Alright, I admit I found Snake's dialogue amusing.) Well, it's only a title. Unfortunately, it has nothing to do with the Pink Panther.
French Message
Her voice was magnetic. His ears could never resist the allure. It was a fact of science, pseudoscience, and superstition. The words stroked gracefully, lightly, against his ears. Though a siren, her glance was most disarming, as a touch to the temples. And as if reading his mind through this delicate connection, each motion of her eyes found and dismissed in him the stresses encumbering his mind. As they assuaged his apprehensions, the substance of his thought poised upon his anxiety as he shifted its weight toward a most terrifying task. He opened his mouth... too late.
Had to run "trop" and "meme" through a dictionary because that was the only part I didn't know (although I don't know the grammatically correct translation). It's a French Message!
I could've sworn my opening sentence was, "I've noticed that the word Imaginarium has been thrown around lately and if I didn't know that Strop made a map, I would've wondered what the heck was going on."
With these writing contests springing up, I wonder if anyone actually knows the niceties of writing. (I know I don't fully understand everything.) I don't want to sound like some sort of writing snob, but the thing is, they aren't actually "writing" contests but "short story" contests. If I could I would supply a rambling on prolix. Does anyone explore beyond traditional prose anymore? Has there been a "writing contest" based on copywriting? I don't think I've ever seen any dramatic pieces here either. All I see is... well, we all know what they say about amateur sci-fi/fantasy writers, myself included. It's nice enough to know that I have been there, but at what age, what stage of development, does one break out of the box if it's even possible to break out of the box? I have yet more of life to experience and my writing will surely change.
And while I'm on the topic, what is with the proliferation of themes? in art, poetry, animation, what have you. A theme for creativity? How about drawing a picture out of some random configuration of scribbles or writing a piece from a pseudorandom combination of words?
I could've sworn my opening sentence was, "I've noticed that the word Imaginarium has been thrown around lately and if I didn't know that Strop made a map, I would've wondered what the heck was going on."
I hope you don't mind, I found the concept quaint and novel at the same time, so I couldn't pass it up!
Does anyone explore beyond traditional prose anymore?
That's actually a good question. With the (online)proliferation of fanfiction which is almost, if not entirely prose, I suspect that poetry has been increasingly relegated to two perceived populations: a) cultural snobs with an emphasis on hifalutin rhetoric, b) emo kids who like use poetry as a vehicle for describing self-harm practices.
And the same applies to dramatic pieces and scripts- minus the emo crowd this time. Though to be sure, NaNoWriMo's script frenzy is coming up...if I were not to be embroiled in a mighty struggle to master cardiology and respiratory medicine in six weeks (i.e. how to read that squiggly line on the ECG), I would have definitely gone for it.
I hope you don't mind, I found the concept quaint and novel at the same time, so I couldn't pass it up!
I believe I okayed it?
I suspect that poetry has been increasingly relegated to two perceived populations:
You're forgetting the free verse population that proliferates on writing forums.
Red Leaf Chronometer
This is how it ends. The red leaf, he discovered, was a highly accurate time travel device, too late. Let us go back to the beginning. When it was conceived, it was written for all time, existing before it was created and long after it was destroyed. Once it was conceived in the mind, in the mind it had always existed. There was no beginning. No middle. No end. It remains, if the mind is eternal, for all eternity. You just lost the game.
T_T I've lost the game six times now. . . .once when I left the site and looked at my recent history to go back to AG, four times from Zoph mentioning the game in her posts, and once just now. :`(
The traffic light stopped him as he was about to step into the street. He waited for it to change color but after a minute, he was sure the light was broken. The streets were void of any vehicles and police officers, so he decided it was safe to pass. As he stepped forward, the traffic light bent over to block his path. He tried walking around it and over it with no success. It finally spoke, "I cannot let you pass." "Why not?" he asked. It replied, "I cannot let you pass until you realize that you are going the wrong way." "Why would I still want to pass if that is the wrong way?" "Tell me when you realize that you are going the wrong way." The traffic light yielded and returned to its original position. The man crossed the street as the light had turned green. He never returned to that intersection.
I wonder how many people actually read this since there always seems to be a burst in views at 100 replies or 10 pages.
Of a Deviant
To unknowingly hold two contradictory ideas unknowingly without resolution is to be human. To knowingly hold two contradictory two contradictory ideas knowingly without resolution is to be a deviant. There were known knowns, known unknowns, and unknown unknowns, but the deviant deals in unknown knowns, at least unknown to non-deviants. The deviant takes nothing for granted but plays with those base assumptions, carefully manipulating others. Holding up all the cards for all to see, the deviant observes not what cards are chosen but how the cards are chosen. Within those means, that is how, literally, Pass rose to his current predicament.
--- There isn't actually a story of Pass. But this next part might seem familiar to some.
Humble Beginnings
Spectacular people were spectacular because they were born spectacular. That was what he believed. His mother told him that he was going to be one of the most spectacular around. Mothers were never wrong. Especially when his mother told him, "Just because you wear the hat and boots, it doesn't make you a cowboy." And she was right, but he did things his own way. He wasn't the romanticized gunslinging antihero or the lasso-twirling cow herder. He was the adventurous frontiersman steeped in wanderlust, in his own mind at least, although he was quite taken by being a hero. Still, the term "cowboy" wasn't quite fitting, which was why he called himself the Bullman.
