I find myself thumbing through papers and stories I’ve written throughout my life and see the lunacy of continuing to do something I’m obviously no good at. But all my friends seem to encourage me, even though they aren’t exactly from the readers’ community. I feel better when I write, but never satisfied with what I’ve written.
Sometimes I write stories about things I’ve experienced first hand; others are just ideas that swarm around in my head. And I notice that in all there are a lot of plain and simple thoughts that brought it all out.
I place the files back into the cabinet and shut the drawer, and begin to type these words. “I find myself thumbing through papers and stories I’ve written…” But then I stop and think, ‘I swear I just did this!’
As I look back at the computer screen I see the last five minutes of my life typed into a three paragraph story. I begin to think I’ve lost my mind, but then I just reach out to the keyboard and start typing again.
“I find myself thumbing through papers…” and I pause. ‘Damn it, I did it again!’ I think to myself, as I start to get irritated. But when I look up at the screen there is nothing written and the drawer is still open with the files I was reading lying out waiting for me to thumb through them.
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So as I find my self thumbing through papers, it starts all over again. And I just go with the flow as if nothing were wrong. It seems like I get a little more written this time, so I stop to read it.
“I swear I just did this!” is the last thing I typed. And I can’t help but think ‘that is exactly what happened.’ So I try to type some more, and end up typing the following moments into another couple of paragraphs.
I stop to read it once again, and nothing is written on the screen. I look down at the file cabinet and the drawer is open with the same files lying out waiting for me to thumb through them again. I start to think, “This is getting insane!”
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I find myself again thumbing through all the papers and stories I have written throughout my life and noticed how boring they were and that I didn’t really have any talent for it. I thought about all the times I had put myself through this very same situation and decided to just go for a walk, and threw the file down without placing it in the cabinet drawer and left the room in a strange feeling of Déjà vu.
Nice stuff. This is very
Nice stuff. This is very reminiscent of my everyday life. The same thing happening over and over. I like this idea of a writer writing about themselves. Brett Easton Ellis did this in Lunar Park, but then things got a little abstract and confused. You could actually go anywhere after this start, there's no real feeling of a specific genre here, so no constraints on what might follow.
I wonder if this is a little autobiographical, perhaps an elaboration on the frustration of fighting through writers block.
I'm not going to go into such details as grammar and the like here, because I get the impression this is still a rough outline.
Yes, exactly so
I should really try to work