[This is a continuation of that other story I was trying to write. Still....scrap it is. Oh yeah, and that previous thing I wrote? I just wanna say that I can't believe I actually made an attempt at fanfiction. Geez. I swear I would never do that. Oh well, too late now.]

How does one begin to paint a picture on a blank canvas? This wasn't necessarily the type of canvas that you'd initially think of. I'm talking about loose leaf notebook paper and a medium tip ballpoint pen...or if I feel like it, a blank white box and the rapid movement of fingers on keys on the computer keyboard while letters instantaneously appear on the screen. If my choice was the latter, I'd usually stray from using MSDOC and stick to the simple program known as the "Notepad" for Windows. It's versatile, it doesn't automatically correct your spelling errors or grammar mistakes with the all-too annoying red lines and green lines, and it doesn't pay attention to page structure. In a sense, it's like a regular loose leaf notepad, but with no lines or margins. I'd just have to take the time and effort to go back and actually proof-read every damn word and line...not that it really bothers me anyway. I take some satisfaction in re-reading my pieces.

I've been in a creative slump, however. More often than not, I'd find myself concocting some sort of storyline with some sort of plot, and some sort of protagonist who tries to achieve...some sort of task. Then within about five minutes of my writing time, my mind refuses to think any longer and leads me to a block in the road. Once this happens, my pitiful writer's soul sits in place staring at the screen, staring at the paper for minutes on end, trying to mind-rake for ideas. Nothing ever comes to mind.

Questions, endless questions string through my mind like a scrolling marquee, "Should it be science fiction? Should it be a literary masterpiece? Should it be science fiction fantasy? Romance? Adventure? A biography? A fictional biography? What should it be? Where would my character go? What should he or she do?"

Endless questions, I'm telling you, endless. So endless that there isn't an inch or a nanometer of space left in my skull to accomodate for such thoughts and ponderings...

...until she came into the picture. Things, however, were still ordinary. I find myself penning my thoughts for the day instead of a distinct storyline. My notebook is filled up with fragments of my thoughts. Could I call it a documentary? I thought that whoever would happen to read this manuscript other than myself would make the decision for me. Though I'd like to let you know, that every sort of genre exists in this pile of uncreative rubbish.

"Write about love," so she says. But what about it? What does it do? She gave me some sort of definition, but I can't say that I've interpreted it the same way she did. Should I just draw on what I've studied and say that love is something that makes you feel alive? That tells you that you exist, and that you have a soul?

But she called me the other day and decided to help me with my pathetic little plot. She explained, after clearing her throat, "It's going to be about this guy who's completely stuck in his own world, and he's trying to find his place in it. In the process, he forgets about the things that matter the most to him because he's so stuck on figuring out the things that are related to him and him only. So, he's stuck in this world right? How about a dream world, and the only way to get out of it is to accept his place in the real world, and therefore accept reality...all the time he's stuck in his world, he's trying to find this girl. HIS girl, but he can't find her because of the distractions that hinder him."

I had answered, "So the only way he can find his true love is if he snaps out of this dream world of his?"

"Yes, that's one part of it."

"Why don't YOU write this story? I don't plan to write a love story, you know. It's not my thing."

She had scoffed at me and replied, "Nothing's ever your thing. Eh, you're funny you know, so funny, it's almost annoying. I don't know why I spend so much time talking to you."

I remember the grating silence that scratched through that phone that day. It seemed to screech so loudly that I couldn't hear myself thinking anymore, until she finally spoke and said, "Write it. I'll help you with ideas, and you just write the pretty words."

I heard myself say, "Hm...you're pretty--"

"I am?" she quickly and cleverly answered.

And I will never get used to her exits. After I had finished with a "you're pretty funny too" I was received by a rather loud click on her end. She had hung up. Those quick little exits of hers undoubtedly annoy me. Sometimes I wonder why I spend so much time talking to her. Dear God! The answer's quite obvious; I've become enough of an idiot to be reiterating her exact words.

Life: 09/22/08 | Posted By: Erzengel Weiss | 0 comments