This kid. Every day he sat down and wrote. Usually about something he’d just conjured up in his head, something spastic and written down hastily, “just get it out” was his mantra. He’d rehearsed so many times, on so many different blogs devoid of anything other than pretty words and ugly meanings. This, he thought, was his ultimate comedy. He’d read enough to know how unoriginal his thoughts were. Too little to realize most everything he wrote about was already in the books.
Diamonds in the rough, no doubt. Some of the things this kid wrote about actually formed coherence that led to questions he hadn’t answers. When he gave his work to other readers, they’d come up with their own theories, questions, and answers about his work. Sometimes it sounded like they had a vast intelligence far beyond his capabilities. Other times he wasn’t sure if they were phoning it is like he was.
Yeah, his writing got better, but the subject matter was usually towing the same line. He had two particular genres he worked with: nature and hyper-realism. He liked non-stories, a word or two on the person who usually went overlooked. Again, he didn’t know this had been accomplished many times over. His non-stories were nonsense; they led nowhere and oftentimes left his readers asking themselves why they’d taken the time out of their day to read it in the first place. It was all part of his master plan, see.
There’s this one. About a girl and a magical conch shell. It’s maybe the best thing he’s put out there. The rough version he gave to his readers was polished and sent out for publication – alongside a little nature ditty that maxed out at 500 words tops. As fast as he doled out the things were about as fast as he received rejection notices in return. He learned to laugh about them. It was a net-positive for his character, at least.
Eventually, the words stopped flowing, dammed by a job that insisted on his words for their use. He didn’t mind. In fact, he enjoyed his job. A respite from a life that had becoming increasingly stressful from 5:01 PM until 8:59 AM. Where did it leave the writing? Where could he take it? Ah, it doesn’t matter. They get 2 likes anyway. Nobody’s reading this stuff. But when would he write? Even after trashing himself and pity self-loathing, it was a question he asked himself.
Sometimes he still thinks about a story he’d like to write, a word or two on such and such. They typically fall to the wayside for other projects that promise a penny, nickel, or dime. So engrossed in upward mobility, this friggin’ kid practically stopped writing creatively altogether. He missed it. Like a…like a…it’ll come back, the fragrance. His scent. Like a…oh, come on. It’s like trying to turn over a lawnmower engine for the first time of the season. It’s not coming right now, but it’ll get going for sure.
His worst fear, this kid, was that he’d eventually forget his words and how to put them in place. He’d write as though he were at work. Not himself. If there were any one reason for him to keep going, this was it. He knew. He didn’t write for the likes, he wrote for himself. Over 100 posts and he kept going strong, ya know, until. Still, it was tough to find the time. He’d have to, if he wanted to keep the words his way. Because he was right, leave them alone for too long and they become something different. Something he might not like. “It’s been too long” he thought, and instead of looking for apartments asking for unrealistically low rent or researching, he opened a notepad for the first time in a long time. Something not half-assed. Something hyper-realistic. Shit, too realistic.