I’ve never written a story before. I’ve written articles and speeches. I’ve tried poems. I’ve even tried rap. I’ve never written a story before.
Well, here I am, finally trying it. It’s not that bad, maybe not as exciting as I would like, but it’s peaceful. I don’t feel as glorious as I expected. I envisioned feeling like Twain slashing through racism, like Dostoevsky dictating the depths of his soul, like Hitchens in a drunken brawl with god, like Thoreau alone in his cabin, maybe even like Paul inspired by God. Yet here I sit, on my bed, my thumbs slapping words down on my iPhone, a collection of Bukowski poems in my lap.
I open a window. They say that the answer is blowing in the wind, so I want to be ready when it comes.
It’s 4:28 in the afternoon. Inspiration’s running late; I told him to be here at 4. You just can’t trust the muses. I stare at this screen like the Tiananmen Square Protester stared at the tanks in 1989. A heroic act of rebellion, no doubt, but he eventually was shuffled out of the way. Maybe I should shuffle away from the page awhile, quit searching for the words. I’ll let the words search for me.
It’s now 9:59pm. The words still haven’t found me. I would like to pay homage to Christopher Hitchens, whose death last night inspired me to try to write. It’s now 10:01pm. Maybe the words will find me eventually.
11:43pm. I’ve never written a story before.
And I probably never will.