Smithson's Writing Process {Story Fragment}
Smithson held himself closely to a writing ritual. His workdays always consisted of the same steps, though he let himself vary somewhat on the details. For example, first he prepared himself a beverage. Perhaps water, perhaps tea, perhaps coffee, perhaps a can of root beer or, on rare and adventurous occasions, perhaps a mug of his most recent batch of kefir mead. Drink in hand, he would enter his study. It was a beautiful room, all full of dark hardwoods and books and fun little toys and gizmos scattered about. He had purchased most of the items himself, though some had been sent to him by friends or fans, and he had even made a couple of them personally. Many of them were clockwork gadgets of some sort, and the overall effect was very reminiscent of something from the Victorian era, when the world was just beginning to discover the wonderful, crazy, ridiculously dangerous things it could do with steam. He would pause a moment to survey the room, relishing the glow of the light off of the wood and the smell of the books, before crossing to his desk and lowering himself into his chair. He would place his beverage on the clay coaster his daughter had made for him and consider for the umpteenth time whether there was a way to consult her, without hurting her feelings, about whether she had deliberately constructed it to look as though he had just crushed some large insect with his glass or if that part was just a Rorschach coincidence. If the former, he would wonder, what did that say about his daughter's mind? If the latter, what did it say about his own? He would then shake his head and, if he had prepared himself a hot beverage, set a little Stirling engine on top. It was a beautiful engine, all brass and crystal and shining steel, and after he put it in motion it would let him know by its slowing that his drink had cooled enough for him to consume it.
That having been done, he would turn on The Machine.
The Machine was a computing and word processing device. Though obsolete now (newer and more powerful processors were being produced almost every couple of months, it seemed) it still had plenty of power to do the things he needed and, unless something changed drastically in his writing style, it would continue to have plenty of power until a crucial part of its internal system finally failed. His wife had once remarked, after a particularly successful novel had left them flush with money, that he might consider upgrading to something that ran more smoothly and took up less space but he wouldn't hear of it. She pointed out the numerous occasions on which she had overheard him grumbling about some problem or other that he was having with it, and that if he were to get rid of it his writing might go more smoothly. He had laughed and explained that that was an important bond that he and The Machine shared with each other, and that despite the grumbling, indeed perhaps because of it, The Machine was an invaluable tool that simply could not be replaced by something bought off the shelf. The Machine, he said, was its own story, with all its parts and how they all interacted with each other; a story that he knew intimately because, like his other stories, he had put it together himself. A story that was still being written, polished, and just like any other story of his it had its tricky or annoying parts that took him some time to work out. Nonetheless, since he knew it so well he was able to use it in his story writing in a way that he could not with just any other machine. Without The Machine, he had insisted, his writing would go even less smoothly. She had laughed too, then, and asked if there was something else he'd like to splurge on since they had the money, and that was how he had come to own the beautiful Stirling engine. His wife still teased him about The Machine occasionally, but never again had she actually suggested or encouraged him to get rid of it, so he knew that, at least on some level, she had understood. It was one of the many reasons he loved her.
The whole situation would have made much more sense if he had ever actually done any writing on The Machine.
To be continued?
That having been done, he would turn on The Machine.
The Machine was a computing and word processing device. Though obsolete now (newer and more powerful processors were being produced almost every couple of months, it seemed) it still had plenty of power to do the things he needed and, unless something changed drastically in his writing style, it would continue to have plenty of power until a crucial part of its internal system finally failed. His wife had once remarked, after a particularly successful novel had left them flush with money, that he might consider upgrading to something that ran more smoothly and took up less space but he wouldn't hear of it. She pointed out the numerous occasions on which she had overheard him grumbling about some problem or other that he was having with it, and that if he were to get rid of it his writing might go more smoothly. He had laughed and explained that that was an important bond that he and The Machine shared with each other, and that despite the grumbling, indeed perhaps because of it, The Machine was an invaluable tool that simply could not be replaced by something bought off the shelf. The Machine, he said, was its own story, with all its parts and how they all interacted with each other; a story that he knew intimately because, like his other stories, he had put it together himself. A story that was still being written, polished, and just like any other story of his it had its tricky or annoying parts that took him some time to work out. Nonetheless, since he knew it so well he was able to use it in his story writing in a way that he could not with just any other machine. Without The Machine, he had insisted, his writing would go even less smoothly. She had laughed too, then, and asked if there was something else he'd like to splurge on since they had the money, and that was how he had come to own the beautiful Stirling engine. His wife still teased him about The Machine occasionally, but never again had she actually suggested or encouraged him to get rid of it, so he knew that, at least on some level, she had understood. It was one of the many reasons he loved her.
The whole situation would have made much more sense if he had ever actually done any writing on The Machine.
To be continued?