I always thought that was kind of a stupid song, but that's not the point.
It's been a while since I wrote. Not just writing in general. In fact, I've just written two plays. No, it's been a while since I wrote something for fun. For me. In the world of published writers I suppose you don't get to do as much of that as you'd like. And even if you do, you can't just write when you feel like it, or when you've been struck by divine inspiration. No. There are deadlines and expectations. Draft after draft after draft. Then you have to hope the story sells. That someone, somewhere, likes it enough to print a few copies and put them on a shelf. If no one does, then I suppose you have to try to do it yourself.
So, I've been looking for random prompts. Little ways here and there to challenge myself. It's been slow going. The fire isn't what it used to be. Now, by no means do I believe it's gone. However, it's difficult to burn a soggy log. As mush sense as that makes.
One of my professors said the hardest part is finishing your first one. After you've written the first one, you have a general idea about the parts. How to construct them. Where to draw information from. What's more, you also know that the task isn't quite as daunting as it once seemed.
Even as I research them, it seems quite unlikely that my writing will ever be good enough for these literary magazines, let alone a published novel, but I have to hope. Every single author I admire had to start somewhere. Had to hope that one day, someone would fall in love with the worlds they created. Had to believe that somewhere along the way, they would have molded and developed their skills until they were "good enough." They all had to start somewhere, and so must I.
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On an unrelated note: I am so freaking sick of "love."
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Don't Feel Bad
It didn't look like much. It almost seemed like someone had left a little extra sugar in the bottom of the spoon, but it would be enough. More than enough.
Reaching over the half eaten bowl of chicken caesar salad, the young woman gently picked up the glass of orange juice and brought it to the edge of the table. Hopefully, it wouldn't make her drink taste weird, though it didn't matter much to her as long as it worked.
Another glance at the nearly empty silver spoon made her pause for a moment, then reach for a small bottle sitting next to the plate. A little more wouldn't hurt.Two quick taps to the side of the bottle dislodged just enough to turn the dusting of powder into a neat little mound in the bowl of the utensil. Carefully, she moved the spoon to the rim of the cup, then dumped its load into the orange liquid, swirling it a few times for good measure. She left the spoon in the cup long enough to replace the cap on the little brown bottle and then chuck it into the nearby trash can. Ninety dollars gone with the flick of the wrist, not that money was of any immediate concern.
The young woman put the thought out of her mind and once again lightly gripped the glass of orange juice before standing and moving towards the entry to the kitchen. Thoughtlessly, she stirred the mixture while she strolled from room to room, obviously contemplating something. Here and there she stopped to complete little chores like turning off the television, straightening the corners of the duvet, and closing a forgotten drawer. It seemed almost habit rather than anything else. Her train of thought brought her to the end of the small corridor and into her office library. It was nothing huge, but she was proud of every volume that lined the bookshelf covered walls. Yes, this would be the perfect place. Without looking, she chose a book and carried it over to pleasantly plump, leather lounge chair.
A tired sigh accompanied her slow decent before she crossed her legs, opened the book upon them and began sipping her orange juice.The acrid taste of the powder distorted the flavor of the juice slightly, so she swirled her drink again before taking another sip. An uncomfortable burning began to rise up in her throat until her tongue seemed to smolder in her mouth. Even so, she continued to read.
A few seconds later, the words on the page blurred and swayed until she was forced to blink in an attempt to steady herself. Her breathing had changed already, shifting to short, arrhythmic breaths that so greatly contrasted the young woman's calm expression they almost seemed contrived. Having given up on her reading, she placed a finger on the page, then sat back and took another long drag from the nearly empty glass. Colors blurred, faded, sparked to life, then blurred again before her eyes as her heartbeat grew more and more erratic. Her hand shaking now, she lifted the glass and placed it, as gracefully as she could manage, on the small table beside her before allowing the quivering appendage to grasp at the arm of the chair. Leaning back and closing her eyes, she let it come. Her last thought bringing a sardonic smile to her purpling lips. She hoped they liked her note. It was simple enough and gave good advice.
"Don't feel bad."
And she didn't. Not when she paid too much for the small amount of cyanide she would need, or when she mixed it into her orange juice, or when she took her last breath. No, she didn't feel much at all.
Reaching over the half eaten bowl of chicken caesar salad, the young woman gently picked up the glass of orange juice and brought it to the edge of the table. Hopefully, it wouldn't make her drink taste weird, though it didn't matter much to her as long as it worked.
Another glance at the nearly empty silver spoon made her pause for a moment, then reach for a small bottle sitting next to the plate. A little more wouldn't hurt.Two quick taps to the side of the bottle dislodged just enough to turn the dusting of powder into a neat little mound in the bowl of the utensil. Carefully, she moved the spoon to the rim of the cup, then dumped its load into the orange liquid, swirling it a few times for good measure. She left the spoon in the cup long enough to replace the cap on the little brown bottle and then chuck it into the nearby trash can. Ninety dollars gone with the flick of the wrist, not that money was of any immediate concern.
The young woman put the thought out of her mind and once again lightly gripped the glass of orange juice before standing and moving towards the entry to the kitchen. Thoughtlessly, she stirred the mixture while she strolled from room to room, obviously contemplating something. Here and there she stopped to complete little chores like turning off the television, straightening the corners of the duvet, and closing a forgotten drawer. It seemed almost habit rather than anything else. Her train of thought brought her to the end of the small corridor and into her office library. It was nothing huge, but she was proud of every volume that lined the bookshelf covered walls. Yes, this would be the perfect place. Without looking, she chose a book and carried it over to pleasantly plump, leather lounge chair.
A tired sigh accompanied her slow decent before she crossed her legs, opened the book upon them and began sipping her orange juice.The acrid taste of the powder distorted the flavor of the juice slightly, so she swirled her drink again before taking another sip. An uncomfortable burning began to rise up in her throat until her tongue seemed to smolder in her mouth. Even so, she continued to read.
A few seconds later, the words on the page blurred and swayed until she was forced to blink in an attempt to steady herself. Her breathing had changed already, shifting to short, arrhythmic breaths that so greatly contrasted the young woman's calm expression they almost seemed contrived. Having given up on her reading, she placed a finger on the page, then sat back and took another long drag from the nearly empty glass. Colors blurred, faded, sparked to life, then blurred again before her eyes as her heartbeat grew more and more erratic. Her hand shaking now, she lifted the glass and placed it, as gracefully as she could manage, on the small table beside her before allowing the quivering appendage to grasp at the arm of the chair. Leaning back and closing her eyes, she let it come. Her last thought bringing a sardonic smile to her purpling lips. She hoped they liked her note. It was simple enough and gave good advice.
"Don't feel bad."
And she didn't. Not when she paid too much for the small amount of cyanide she would need, or when she mixed it into her orange juice, or when she took her last breath. No, she didn't feel much at all.
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