My most likely invalid attempt at prose.
So here i go, my attempt at prose, i got an idea for a start of a story, in the wake of John Fante, maybe a little Bukowski, but anyways...here goes
I will never be a good, or great writer, because i have no voice. My words they just sit on the page, completely lifeless, they dont dance like bukowski's or miller's, or fante's. you always hear the critics saying how their words, their sentences dance across the page...i guess i've never seen it...words dancing across a page that is. maybe all the critics are on hallucinagins, but hell, even if they were i bet that my words wouldnt dance at all. I can just see those critics cracked up on some kind of drug staring at my work and thinking to themselves..."this guy claims to be like bukowski, but his work danced, these words arent dancing" i guess even hallucinagins can't bring my tired voice to life. My words, no matter how much someone tries to pry at them with drugs would simply sit there, i know it...they just sit there waiting to be thrown in a fire, waiting to be torn to shreds and thrown out the window in frustration. they wait there to be read by editors, they long for the editors to curse them, to throw them in an envolope with a letter saying "your writing needs definite work, but keep trying, and keep sending in your stories" Damn those words, damn my voice that can't seem to be found, damn the editors who reject my stories, damn the fires that burn my words, burn my thoughts into a heaping pile of ashes that cant be distinguised from those of a piece of wood that has no genious in it. Damn Bukowski and Fante and Miller for being so damn good...damn my parents for not giving me good enough genes to be as good as them, or my life for not providing enough events for good enough prose.
Today i walked through the airport, sat alone on a plane, and i watched people...how pathetic. i look to my left and there's an old man picking his nose, i look to my right there's a middle aged army sargent lying back with his shoes kicked off, giving off a wretched smell, and then he farts...this is the world i live in. I walked into the terminal with the girl i had met a couple days ago on my mind...Leslie
To be continued, probably tomorrow
Ender Williams.
I will never be a good, or great writer, because i have no voice. My words they just sit on the page, completely lifeless, they dont dance like bukowski's or miller's, or fante's. you always hear the critics saying how their words, their sentences dance across the page...i guess i've never seen it...words dancing across a page that is. maybe all the critics are on hallucinagins, but hell, even if they were i bet that my words wouldnt dance at all. I can just see those critics cracked up on some kind of drug staring at my work and thinking to themselves..."this guy claims to be like bukowski, but his work danced, these words arent dancing" i guess even hallucinagins can't bring my tired voice to life. My words, no matter how much someone tries to pry at them with drugs would simply sit there, i know it...they just sit there waiting to be thrown in a fire, waiting to be torn to shreds and thrown out the window in frustration. they wait there to be read by editors, they long for the editors to curse them, to throw them in an envolope with a letter saying "your writing needs definite work, but keep trying, and keep sending in your stories" Damn those words, damn my voice that can't seem to be found, damn the editors who reject my stories, damn the fires that burn my words, burn my thoughts into a heaping pile of ashes that cant be distinguised from those of a piece of wood that has no genious in it. Damn Bukowski and Fante and Miller for being so damn good...damn my parents for not giving me good enough genes to be as good as them, or my life for not providing enough events for good enough prose.
Today i walked through the airport, sat alone on a plane, and i watched people...how pathetic. i look to my left and there's an old man picking his nose, i look to my right there's a middle aged army sargent lying back with his shoes kicked off, giving off a wretched smell, and then he farts...this is the world i live in. I walked into the terminal with the girl i had met a couple days ago on my mind...Leslie
To be continued, probably tomorrow
Ender Williams.