short writing
From a prompt index thing sorta at nanowrimo .
First quote: A classic is a book that has never finished saying what it has to say. - Italo Calvino 6 minutes
Second quote: I try to leave out the parts that people skip. - Elmore Leonard 3 minutes
Third quote: I'll publish, right or wrong: / Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. - Lord Byron 3 minutes
Fourth quote: All autobiography is self-indulgent. - Daphne Du Maurier 6 minutes
The quotes are not used literally, I hope that's okay. I just sorta fed them to my muse.
Link is http://community.livejournal.com/nanowrimo/2002247.html
“A classic book is one that's never finished what it's trying to say.” That's what's branded across the girl's standard-as-suburbia marble composition notebook. It's written in silver sharpie and it takes me a minute to separate the letters from the black-and-white of the cardboard. Five says she got it at WalMart and another five says she got it on sale but that's not really relevant; she turns the page and continues writing with her ball point pen with the chewed-up top.
I shift in the chair and it creaks under the low-volume jazz through the speakers of the place. Like someone droning on and on because it's soft jazz and I hate soft jazz. Markle is still hiding but he'll come out soon, I assume. It's what he usually does. He hates public places so much. Which is possibly why I'm always lurking in coffee shops. He leaves me alone.
But sooner rather than later (as usual) he's snaking through the tables leaving that ghost-wake behind him, the one that makes people shiver, and he sits in the chair in front of me like he can actually feel it
I don't see what you appreciate in places like this, he says, looking at me down his nose.
I like people, I say bluntly. I like to watch them.
Who, the girl over there with her journal and her gel pen? he asks with the same sneer.
Yeah. I bet she has a story. I bet-
I'll leave out the parts that everyone skips in a story. She was born in a trailer but her mother soon realized what a hell hole she was digging and got away. With her, of course. She still lives in a run down apartment but they've got electricity and running water and her mother has a steady job and well then, she doesn't know anything about her mother really. Markle's brows furrow as he pokes about through the girl's consciousness, his ghost-wake trembling like the pathetic remnants of a storm. She complains a lot and the mother blames herself. But the mother will realize that she's done the best she can and be content. After the girl moves out. Until then she's going to continue braving through life wishing she'd done better. The woman is really quite remarkable. I doubt you'd understand-
What are their names?
Why do they matter?
They help me understand. Just...having a name. Like me giving you a name. Just...what are their names.
The girl's name is Julia, the mother's name is Rachel. Movie star names. Very trashy. Your sister would approve. She's written down some quotes from her English class in the margins of her notebook. I'll publish right or wrong, fools are my subject, satire my song. She actually has mildly refined taste in literature, you know. Such a contrast to her character. I doubt you even know who said that.
The red plastic stirrer straws have always reminded me of Christmas but I couldn't tell you why. Nevertheless I mix three sugars into the coffee. And Hitler was a vegetarian, you know. Make up your mind, do you like her or not?
Whether or not I am fond of her is irrelevant! He's doing the looking-down-his-nose thing again which makes him look all rife with indignation and such. Although I find her ignorance towards her past to be unflattering, it does not mean that I cannot respect her tastes in reading. Have you perhaps thought that the mother deserves such unease regarding her relationship with her daughter? Maybe she resorts to drinking to cope, hmm? That wouldn't be healthy. You'd not like her then. You're so simplistic, Blake, I don't see why-
Why what? Calm down, you know, you're making the temperature in here simply PLUMMET. My coffee's going to chill if you're not careful.
The girl with the cheap composition notebook turns another page and shivers. Markel sulks. All auto-biographies are self serving. To really understand a person one must approach the scene from the outside, no? One must not sense relation with the person. And you always do that, you're always picking at the narrative beneath events. There doesn't have to be a story. It is not always simple. You. Should. Know. That.
Stories aren't always simple. Really, they aren't. I don't think he understands that. Markel seperates characters and emotion from himself. I wonder if he can still feel anything other than disdain and indignation underneath that fake pearly skin. Stories aren't always simple, I say to him. Really, they aren't.
No. No story really makes you understand everything.
They're not supposed to, but that doesn't make them simple.
It makes them simplified.
Not necessarily, unless the story suffers from having been...streamlined. Sherlock Holmes. We don't need to know the details of his daily interactions with Watson because the gap there is as tantalizing as any story could be. We don't need to know everything about every character, you know?
No, he says, brows, once again, drawn together in furious contemplation. You claim your stories give you insight...how can one derive insight from some incomplete source of information?
A story isn't written to tell us what Watson's favourite food is, it's written to entertain, provoke thought, cheer, to help the human endure- and we don't need to know what Watson's favourite food is to DO that, do you follow me?
I suppose, but you still don't really learn anything, right?
I sigh into my drink, the resulting billowing of steam a minor sandstorm against my glasses. And I look at Markel with a calculating intent but end up watching him watching other people. He's got a long face and long, curly hair- or did at one point- and dresses like men's vests were still fashionable. Capes, too. And he's a ghost as far as I can tell. But I'm used to him sitting in front of me while he throws his thoughts at me.
That scares me. It really does. Scares me as much as the thought that he doesn't know his real name anymore. That he can know another person completely with as much effort as I burn up in simply exhaling. That he exists. That I can see him. That scares me.
First quote: A classic is a book that has never finished saying what it has to say. - Italo Calvino 6 minutes
Second quote: I try to leave out the parts that people skip. - Elmore Leonard 3 minutes
Third quote: I'll publish, right or wrong: / Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. - Lord Byron 3 minutes
Fourth quote: All autobiography is self-indulgent. - Daphne Du Maurier 6 minutes
The quotes are not used literally, I hope that's okay. I just sorta fed them to my muse.
Link is http://community.livejournal.com/nanowrimo/2002247.html
“A classic book is one that's never finished what it's trying to say.” That's what's branded across the girl's standard-as-suburbia marble composition notebook. It's written in silver sharpie and it takes me a minute to separate the letters from the black-and-white of the cardboard. Five says she got it at WalMart and another five says she got it on sale but that's not really relevant; she turns the page and continues writing with her ball point pen with the chewed-up top.
I shift in the chair and it creaks under the low-volume jazz through the speakers of the place. Like someone droning on and on because it's soft jazz and I hate soft jazz. Markle is still hiding but he'll come out soon, I assume. It's what he usually does. He hates public places so much. Which is possibly why I'm always lurking in coffee shops. He leaves me alone.
But sooner rather than later (as usual) he's snaking through the tables leaving that ghost-wake behind him, the one that makes people shiver, and he sits in the chair in front of me like he can actually feel it
I don't see what you appreciate in places like this, he says, looking at me down his nose.
I like people, I say bluntly. I like to watch them.
Who, the girl over there with her journal and her gel pen? he asks with the same sneer.
Yeah. I bet she has a story. I bet-
I'll leave out the parts that everyone skips in a story. She was born in a trailer but her mother soon realized what a hell hole she was digging and got away. With her, of course. She still lives in a run down apartment but they've got electricity and running water and her mother has a steady job and well then, she doesn't know anything about her mother really. Markle's brows furrow as he pokes about through the girl's consciousness, his ghost-wake trembling like the pathetic remnants of a storm. She complains a lot and the mother blames herself. But the mother will realize that she's done the best she can and be content. After the girl moves out. Until then she's going to continue braving through life wishing she'd done better. The woman is really quite remarkable. I doubt you'd understand-
What are their names?
Why do they matter?
They help me understand. Just...having a name. Like me giving you a name. Just...what are their names.
The girl's name is Julia, the mother's name is Rachel. Movie star names. Very trashy. Your sister would approve. She's written down some quotes from her English class in the margins of her notebook. I'll publish right or wrong, fools are my subject, satire my song. She actually has mildly refined taste in literature, you know. Such a contrast to her character. I doubt you even know who said that.
The red plastic stirrer straws have always reminded me of Christmas but I couldn't tell you why. Nevertheless I mix three sugars into the coffee. And Hitler was a vegetarian, you know. Make up your mind, do you like her or not?
Whether or not I am fond of her is irrelevant! He's doing the looking-down-his-nose thing again which makes him look all rife with indignation and such. Although I find her ignorance towards her past to be unflattering, it does not mean that I cannot respect her tastes in reading. Have you perhaps thought that the mother deserves such unease regarding her relationship with her daughter? Maybe she resorts to drinking to cope, hmm? That wouldn't be healthy. You'd not like her then. You're so simplistic, Blake, I don't see why-
Why what? Calm down, you know, you're making the temperature in here simply PLUMMET. My coffee's going to chill if you're not careful.
The girl with the cheap composition notebook turns another page and shivers. Markel sulks. All auto-biographies are self serving. To really understand a person one must approach the scene from the outside, no? One must not sense relation with the person. And you always do that, you're always picking at the narrative beneath events. There doesn't have to be a story. It is not always simple. You. Should. Know. That.
Stories aren't always simple. Really, they aren't. I don't think he understands that. Markel seperates characters and emotion from himself. I wonder if he can still feel anything other than disdain and indignation underneath that fake pearly skin. Stories aren't always simple, I say to him. Really, they aren't.
No. No story really makes you understand everything.
They're not supposed to, but that doesn't make them simple.
It makes them simplified.
Not necessarily, unless the story suffers from having been...streamlined. Sherlock Holmes. We don't need to know the details of his daily interactions with Watson because the gap there is as tantalizing as any story could be. We don't need to know everything about every character, you know?
No, he says, brows, once again, drawn together in furious contemplation. You claim your stories give you insight...how can one derive insight from some incomplete source of information?
A story isn't written to tell us what Watson's favourite food is, it's written to entertain, provoke thought, cheer, to help the human endure- and we don't need to know what Watson's favourite food is to DO that, do you follow me?
I suppose, but you still don't really learn anything, right?
I sigh into my drink, the resulting billowing of steam a minor sandstorm against my glasses. And I look at Markel with a calculating intent but end up watching him watching other people. He's got a long face and long, curly hair- or did at one point- and dresses like men's vests were still fashionable. Capes, too. And he's a ghost as far as I can tell. But I'm used to him sitting in front of me while he throws his thoughts at me.
That scares me. It really does. Scares me as much as the thought that he doesn't know his real name anymore. That he can know another person completely with as much effort as I burn up in simply exhaling. That he exists. That I can see him. That scares me.