Tuesday, November 23, 2010

I've come to think of what I'm writing as Shards of Glass - as a title, that is. I tentatively entitled my "novel" Glass and currently all I'm getting are shards. Some are totally disconnected and have nothing to do with anything except trying to get me to the next point, to break through and continue to form the story.

Last night's writing was more of an experiment to spew everything that's in my head out so there are some sections that look a lot like this:

There are many ways that this story can go and sometimes, like those stories, I can be overwhelmed by choice. I remember a story I read that a classmate of mine in University had written where the characters were all standing around having a beer as the writer went out to have a drink trying to figure out what came next. At first I didn’t get it, but once the brilliance of the idea came across I had to wonder, did I just not get it or did he just not convey it properly? Both? I dunno, hard to say.

I leave my characters to sit and drink in lounges waiting for me to figure out what comes next all over the place. Perhaps there’s a bar that they’ve all made so that they could keep each other company.

The scene would be something like this:

Anastasia had been sitting in the parking lot forever waiting to see where it was she going to drive off to.

“Fuck it,” she declared, taking the keys out from the ignition and grabbing her things into her pockets. (I suppose stuffing her things into the pockets of her jackets, would be a more accurate way of putting it.)

She watched other patrons she vaguely knew or had heard of enter and exit the bar. Some were outside smoking as they were wont to do as, they could never figure out if the bar had actually allowed smoking in it or not. Laws came and went so quickly and the author had a penchant to change her mind that came and went at her whim.

She passed by a group standing next to the door and figured she’d check in on them later, if they decided to come in and hang out or leave.

On entering the bar, she spotted a seat that seemed to have been pre-cleared for her that night.

Maybe this was all pre-written too, she thought.

She took a seat and asked the bartender for a gin and tonic. Much like what she thought would be appropriate as that had been what she drank in those days.

“I’m Mike,” said a voice next to her.

She swiveled in her bar stool and directed herself at Mike.

“Mike? You’re Mike? Thee Mike,” and before he could answer, she said, “Nice to meet you.”

Mike looked in place and yet out of sorts. It was the only thing he could do as he was a non-character here in this world. He was an idea, a muse of sorts. He was inspiration.

“I know you but I don’t think we’ve met,” he said extending his hand.

She took a drink and shook his hand.

You I know well,” she nodded and drank again. “I seem to have a lot of lore on you.”

“Is this all based on what could have beens? Is this all based on things that She’d like to do? I’m not exactly understanding what’s going on here. I mean, is this all based on Her whims to leave or not? Stay and figure things out or change?”

“Pre-cisely!” Anastasia winked and took another sip.

“I’m a bit more of a legend around here as the my story wasn’t supposed to have a neat little ending. My story had only to do with my getting over you. You’re not in it of course, outside from my understanding and knowing of you. Well, and how you affect me.”

Mind you that's just me throwing up words on a screen so there's no editing that has been done to it. I just thought I'd put that out there so that you all knew I was still writing, still working things out and not just lost to the void.