![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stinglikeabeeOkay, remember how I was beating myself up for not starting on the Janowrimo? Yeah, okay, I actually wrote something today.
Hee.
Small steps, yeah, small steps. Anyway, I couldn't figure out what to write about, so I just went with the flow. Even when I was convinced there was a dead something (there is!) under my writing desk I did not let go.
What's my motivation?
Simon stared at the words, typed in green against a black screen. Now that he had decided to start writing again it seemed important to find out why.
He was in his late twenties, a time when most would start to think about settling down and perhaps starting a family. Simon was aware this was what others expected of him, and he would go as far as admitting feeling a twinge of something during weekly walks to the neighbourhood park where children squealed and played under the eyes of their watchful parents. That he could not, or rather would not, identify that strange feeling probably helped contribute to the ruin of his last relationship.
Simon gulped a mouthful of cold black coffee. He would not write about that.
Perhaps the question ought to be why now. He wasn't hard up for money. The job paid well, he was able to travel once a month, and there was a decent retirement package. Although the hours Simon worked up seemed ungodly on paper, it was his choice. In fact he was on such good relations with his boss, he'd easily be granted a month's worth paid leave. If it's what Simon wanted.
He couldn't explain why he woke up two days ago and realised he wanted to write. He was never good at it, never particularly cared for it. At school, the creative writing class was an annoying stumbling blocks to achieving the high grades his scholarship demanded. Perhaps convinced of his own lack of creativity, Simon churned out mediocre paper after paper, barely spending more than half an hour on short story assignments. They were often graded as 'too boring', 'clunky', or once, 'mindless'. It never mattered to him as long as it was enough to pass the class.
He leaned back into his chair and tried to remember the lessons.
The instructor was a short, stocky Asian woman with a confused lisp. It had been the height of hilarity the first year to hear her introduction as Mizerz Wyaner. Simon was never tempted to follow the lead of his class, however, and was the only one to call her by Mrs Lionel. According to the headmaster, she had previously taught fiction writing classes at the local community college. Coming to the school to teach hormonal teenagers was probably a step down, Simon had thought. To his surprise unlike the other teachers who impressed upon the students the advantages of rote learning, Mrs Lionel demanded thought. They spent hours dissecting the plots of famous novels and building new stories out of the pieces, laughing openly at the misunderstandings the instructor's lisp brought.
Simon hadn't entered any of the discussions that took place. Talking about a story that was published always seemed overkill to him. Why argue its points to death? He approached the assignments gingerly with the knowledge it may be picked be torn apart by his classmates in unending debates. Simon took pains to make sure his words would say exactly what they meant and would not be twisted. Since he hadn't the honour of ever being singled out, he wondered if he'd succeeded.
There was an assignment that stood out in his memories. In his paper on William Golding's 'Lord of the Flies' the choir stranded on the strange island fell apart even before the fire. There was no monster, no laws in place. Just abuse and crazed despair, ended by a virulent tropical disease. Mrs Lionel had disapprovingly written 'unimaginative' in response. No matter how much Simon tried he could not shrug it off. He was sure his sequence of events in such a situation was inevitable, and did not understand what else was expected of him.
Better post this before I decide to edit the bugger, ugh. *chomps on yummy chocolate raspberry cookies*
Hee.
Small steps, yeah, small steps. Anyway, I couldn't figure out what to write about, so I just went with the flow. Even when I was convinced there was a dead something (there is!) under my writing desk I did not let go.
What's my motivation?
Simon stared at the words, typed in green against a black screen. Now that he had decided to start writing again it seemed important to find out why.
He was in his late twenties, a time when most would start to think about settling down and perhaps starting a family. Simon was aware this was what others expected of him, and he would go as far as admitting feeling a twinge of something during weekly walks to the neighbourhood park where children squealed and played under the eyes of their watchful parents. That he could not, or rather would not, identify that strange feeling probably helped contribute to the ruin of his last relationship.
Simon gulped a mouthful of cold black coffee. He would not write about that.
Perhaps the question ought to be why now. He wasn't hard up for money. The job paid well, he was able to travel once a month, and there was a decent retirement package. Although the hours Simon worked up seemed ungodly on paper, it was his choice. In fact he was on such good relations with his boss, he'd easily be granted a month's worth paid leave. If it's what Simon wanted.
He couldn't explain why he woke up two days ago and realised he wanted to write. He was never good at it, never particularly cared for it. At school, the creative writing class was an annoying stumbling blocks to achieving the high grades his scholarship demanded. Perhaps convinced of his own lack of creativity, Simon churned out mediocre paper after paper, barely spending more than half an hour on short story assignments. They were often graded as 'too boring', 'clunky', or once, 'mindless'. It never mattered to him as long as it was enough to pass the class.
He leaned back into his chair and tried to remember the lessons.
The instructor was a short, stocky Asian woman with a confused lisp. It had been the height of hilarity the first year to hear her introduction as Mizerz Wyaner. Simon was never tempted to follow the lead of his class, however, and was the only one to call her by Mrs Lionel. According to the headmaster, she had previously taught fiction writing classes at the local community college. Coming to the school to teach hormonal teenagers was probably a step down, Simon had thought. To his surprise unlike the other teachers who impressed upon the students the advantages of rote learning, Mrs Lionel demanded thought. They spent hours dissecting the plots of famous novels and building new stories out of the pieces, laughing openly at the misunderstandings the instructor's lisp brought.
Simon hadn't entered any of the discussions that took place. Talking about a story that was published always seemed overkill to him. Why argue its points to death? He approached the assignments gingerly with the knowledge it may be picked be torn apart by his classmates in unending debates. Simon took pains to make sure his words would say exactly what they meant and would not be twisted. Since he hadn't the honour of ever being singled out, he wondered if he'd succeeded.
There was an assignment that stood out in his memories. In his paper on William Golding's 'Lord of the Flies' the choir stranded on the strange island fell apart even before the fire. There was no monster, no laws in place. Just abuse and crazed despair, ended by a virulent tropical disease. Mrs Lionel had disapprovingly written 'unimaginative' in response. No matter how much Simon tried he could not shrug it off. He was sure his sequence of events in such a situation was inevitable, and did not understand what else was expected of him.
**
I stopped because I figured it was plenty for today. Phew! Writing am hard! Tomorrow I'll decide what it is Simon wants to write about. *sigh* With my luck it ain't James Bond scripts.Better post this before I decide to edit the bugger, ugh. *chomps on yummy chocolate raspberry cookies*
