Starting a story with a line like “I had trouble thinking of a good line to start this story,” seems trite. After all, my editor suggested I seek originality. Actually she wrote, oringinality, which I found horrifyingly ironic for an editor. Then again, bad spelling seems to follow me, much like bad words, and generally just as I leave the scene.
I am a writer, one who drips his rapier-like wit from a pen, down onto the page, letting it run between the lines like a sharp blade, cutting the environmental raping into segments of bland description and vivd imagination. Of course, that’s only when the battery on my laptop goes dead, because these days, I recognize the idiocy of using black splotches of ink to illuminate my thoughts. At night, I sit down to create, to tell a story, to form characters that interest me. As the hands of the clock pass vertical, I drift into the darker regions of my brain, a place where despair and disappointment collide, driving me down into depression. It is usually at the end, that I find my tale.
Once I get a story on my screen, I stare through it, seeking to find the character of the piece, the vision behind the words, often finding only the terrible image on my screensaver, a picture of me, staring blankly back at myself. It is there I find the character I was searching for. I look deep into the windows of my soul, picking out the pain, the sorrow, the sadness written in the creases of my eyes, just deep enough to funnel my tears to the top of my cheeks. Yes, there is sadness in this writer. He has witnessed failure, frequently in his prose, more often in his life. Still, he searches the screen, taps the keys, hoping for a moment of inspiration, finally succumbing to perspiration and frustration, all reflecting his deterioration. In these moments, new words appear, ineffectuality, futility, melancholy. Though they convey sadness by definition, they flitter off the tongue, bringing a lightness and joy to themselves. Words can do that, impart dual meaning, like tender, meaning unusually sensitive when touched or pressed, but also, sensitive and caring towards others. I enjoy the duality of words, watching them battle on the page, as if the letters themselves held rank over one another. Master K, with limbs outsretched, striking forth with a harsh sound and swift KicK. The snakelike S, coiled in its sinister stance, set to strike. Watching them strut their powers along my page, an alphabetic army advancing to cover the blank space upon my screen, I am renewed, strengthened by their force, prepared once again to write. They are soldiers in my quest to conquer this blockade. It is here, with my words, that I feel less alone, able to overcome anguish and angst. Here on this battlefield, I am free, to express, to create, to write. Alas, I have broken the blockade. Thank you once again, for my freedom.