So now I will think about my next move. A writer now has to eradicate things. Little things. Anger. Little thoughts. Wastes of time. Little words. Things that don’t matter. The wrong words. Hatred. Bad feelings. Bad, bad, bad.
Go back outside.
A writer has gotta go back outside, you’ve gotta look at those clouds and remember that they’re all of us. We’re all just trying to float. Sometimes it seems like none of them care, and maybe when you die you’ll find out that’s been the truth all along, but that’s not why you write. You don’t write because you think someone is listening, in fact, sometimes you aren’t sure why you write at all, but the point is that you do, and you will, and you must.
So I went outside. And I am sitting and I am writing. Cars pass, so there is the familiar chorus of running motors, honking horns, the whirr of acceleration. Birds consistently chirp, they rustle the tree leaves, and flap their wings like mad every once in a while as they try and take flight. People are filing out of the auditorium nearby, families, friends. Probably from afar for their son or daughter’s band concert, to see their roommate or their boyfriend or their girlfriend. A few of them pass, and an older couple walks by holding hands as the old man talks like a museum curator about the school history, and the wife, of course, doesn’t care about any of this, but she says “mmhmm” at the appropriate times. She holds his hand.
Some confused old ladies walk around leaving a trail of heavy perfume. One walks into the building beside me, then returns a minute later.
“It isn’t open.”
“Is it open?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
They mutter and walk away while making new plans about whatever it was they needed inside.
Coming and going. The chatter dies down, the parking lot is getting emptier and two people walk out of the previous building. A guy and a girl. A little older. Graduates maybe. They walk a few feet away from one another. I can’t hear their conversation but the guy turns his head at her every once in a while and she moves her arms or head or something, so I think they’re talking. They move very slowly. Surely they have a destination. They seem to know where they’re going, but they don’t seem in any hurry to get there.
They stand a minute on the sidewalk. They are not close to one another. The girl is not speaking or looking at her companion, but I don’t think they’re arguing. I’m not sure if there is negativity here.
But I feel a tension. I feel like I want to know something while I watch them, but they just stand, the guy looking at a tree and the girl sort of looking at the sidewalk, looking to move ahead. They start going again, the pace is slow again, their legs are leisurely kicked in front of them, it’s a lovely day after all, but I want to know something. I don’t really know what.
They walk steadily now, moving lazily across the pebbled walk way. I wonder if this would be the end to my fascination, but my eyes remain, my curiosity remains, and the distance between them gets shattered, and with her arms crossed, his arm moves around her waist and I immediately begin to write about it.
I’m not sure why.
hi! this was so mysterious and made me think about it a little when i finished. the words you used to describe, well, everything were perfect. the connection i felt when i read it was very strong. this is short and sweet and absolutely perfect. well done.
You're perfect.
Hello There.....
I don't know but I just have this feeling that this should be a poem, and if it was it would be the best poem in the world!! There is nothing truthfully incorrect with this poem......Just wanted to ask you do you think you could turn this into a poem for me...
So basically, I love you.
Lovely style you've got here, Spinelli.
I think what you've got here from the very first sentence and up to the very last is the essence of story telling. It's that inexplicable thing that grabs us and pulls us right through to the end -- and you see it in those "once upon a time" stories, and you see it when a great orator stands up to tell us that super funny thing that happened last friday night in a bar with his friends and a chicken.
And I think the form of this "inexplicable thing" at least in the context of this particular story is in your narrative voice.
I love the voice in this, because it's a writer's voice P: Whether it's your own voice, or it's some character who is narrating, is irrelevant, because simply through the point of view, you were able to capture a tension/conflict that is unsaid and yet prevalent with the rhythms, cadences, and the layout of the words. There's this sense of purposelessness, this conflict of: what is there to write about? What is it that I see? Where is the story? Why do I write? Why do I exist? that is prevalent throughout and used adeptly and effectively. It's the right sort of conflict, the right sort of perspective of a writer that puts us in a writer's shoes -- and that's magnificent and a subtle/difficult thing to accomplish.
The reader feels a tension too. The reader wants to know too. This sort of connection between the narrative voice/reader is neat because you invite the reader to take a closer look, to fill in those shoes more deeply and to be in that moment.
Splendidly done.
~ as always, Audy
Wow. This is pretty much on key. You must be, like, the spinelli whisperer or something.
These are the sort of words that make people feel. Really fantastic, as far as I'm concerned(:
brb im crying because you're the best.
Oh my goodness gracious. This was one of the most interesting short story kind of thing I believe I've ever read. You succeeded in catching a writer's, an artist's curiosity. You have to hold on to this style, its one most of us envy. : ) I wish I could give you a better review, but it is hard to catch anything wrong with this. Its so utterly..brilliant..and wow.
I'm interested to see what else you have. Keep going strong.
*melting* guuuuhttthaaannkkkkssss
What can I say? Either you write incredibly beautifully when you are extremely angry, or you just write incredibly beautifully all the time. If I had time to write a full review right now, I most certainly would. That's just what I want to tell you, for now. It's not beautiful to be angry, but sometimes beautiful things come out of anger, I guess.
Good job!
~Sapi
Aw, thank you for reading!