I pull from my satchel my story notebook and my poetry notebook and place them on the table. I then scan my pens and think which color would be optimal in this session. Green is the choice, no red- so red ink it shall be! My poetry book is green, my storybook is orange, and my sweater is green so I may as well go orange in leaf. A story it shall be, orange you excited.
I sip my coffee while contemplating a theme of this rite-ing riff. Toronto which to it’s’ citizen is the Metropolis, which is one of the most blah blah multicultural blah blah in the world. If it is Metropolis where is Superman? What about a tale about an immigrant coming to a big city from the small town somewhere and hating it or loving it. I am jesting, that theme does not work in this space. Valentine Day is coming up why not a love story? He meets a she and together they encountered …. Cut! Last time I attempted to create a story the characters were demanding physical features, personal quirks and stuff like that. Been there, done that, finding it quite trite. What about a tale about a menacing menace stalking a timid mouse? The mouse can not find refuge in the kindness of a stranger so the rodent is forced to become a roaring tiger and becomes a beacon of the community.
"Hey, what are you writing, writing guy," asks an annoying acquaintance?
I should be at home attempting to work on this, yet here I am in a coffee shop. If you were sitting in a cafe looking like you are doing something intently, I would not impinge on your personal space. If you were twirling a pen, or tapping to the cafe's music, or playing with your hair, or your eyes are flagging you need attention- I would say hey. Well long as you are not him! If you offer one word to him you get blasted with words until the next Big Bang. I am pretending to be absorbed in this creative act. Writing in spite of the fact that nothing is happening. If I persevere eventually he will exit from the suburbs of my space.
"Writing guy, what are you writing," annoying one asks annoyingly again?
"I am combining letters, with periods, with commas, and with space and run on sentences," I force out.
"It is like Sci-Fi, Cosmic! "
"Actually it is much more macabre! Fate farted on my protagonist, and he is being stalked by an underemployed irritant."
"Why are you writing in Second Cup, are you getting a sponsorship," he asks?
"Would you prefer Tim Horton's?"
"Well, whatever rolls up your rim, W.G.," he laughingly says with a drum roll of ha-ha’s
Sobering up he asks me, "Why are you so controlling?"
It is a time like this when having a dark complexion is a grand ally. I am quite pissed off now and if I were paler the red rage flush would be noted. "What do you mean controlling?"
"Well in your stories the characters have minimal dialogue. You spend most of the time telling us what they say but rarely do they speak for themselves. I have heard you speak outside of this story, and you are for the most part trying not to hear and trying not to speak. When you are you in a story you say the character felt this and that and all the nuances revolving around this and that. Why can't you say, the character said quote XYZ unquote? Even God is less controlling than you are."
"Listen, I am quite ungrateful for your faux insights! I have an issue with bantering, so stop bantering!" I want to shout but this being a corporate public space would make me a red-faced donkey.
"Am I going to be in our story?"
"Hell, No!"
"Good! Not only are you controlling, but you are alienating."
"What, labeled," I say getting angrier?
"Look - what are you doing right now? Have you given me a name yet or am I generic he? I am removing your man purse off the chair opposite you and we shall chat."
I look at him and scroll through my mind seeking its name. "Robert," I say, "your name which I do know is not in this story. It is all about me." I regally sip from my cardboard cup while giving him ’you are below me’ look.
"Can I look at your story about us?"
"No, you can not! You should consider wandering off, I am certain there is a paranoia symposium at Seekers Books! Come to think of it, how can you go all deconstructionalist on my writing when I never shared my fiction with you?"
"Here we go again, petty creator playing omniscient God. You create all manifestations on your pages and judge the terrain good or bad. What about the characters? Is the world but a stage? Perhaps you have god envy? On a bigger scale you are not even a flake of dandruff on a louse nested in the hair of an x-rated film extra. Do these characters give their permission to be used?"
"Hello, this is what we call fiction, so ease up on the friction. You do realize I have an impingement policy- if someone distracts me they must pay. The cost of the ticket is a cappuccino. Ante up or exit!"
"I have no problem with that - can you spot me a fiver?"
"You are not seeing what I am saying, umm Robert."
"How would I see what you are saying if you refuse to let me see what you are telling me to say?"
"You are not real!"
"And you believe you are?"
"I create, thus I have little time to believe! I am quite firm in this creed!"
"To create require belief, or you would have zero time for composing. You would be awe struck at every fresh moment and would not climb into time to capture something imaginary."
"What do you think you are doing Rob?"
"The question would have more clarity, if you say -Rob is now thinking..."
"You are deranged! Who do you think you are?"
"I am not certain who I may be? Where are you going to move me next? I may be able to respond if you provide me with a cheat sheet. "
"Robert, what are you saying?"
"You have been writing and because you are deprived of any real life observation - created me. Not only are you controlling but in denial, - abstractionalist guy. "
"If you are my character, why are you annoying me?"
"I guess you subscribed to an annoying stance and I became your manifestation," said my maybe Robert.
"Well Rob if this is case I quit! I am the character, you are the writer."
I, Rob pause, rub my beardless chin and decide the narrator is not my cardboard cup of green tea and switch to a poem.
Crystallized in space, there a life pretend
an unknown face - this façade should end.
I sip my coffee while contemplating a theme of this rite-ing riff. Toronto which to it’s’ citizen is the Metropolis, which is one of the most blah blah multicultural blah blah in the world. If it is Metropolis where is Superman? What about a tale about an immigrant coming to a big city from the small town somewhere and hating it or loving it. I am jesting, that theme does not work in this space. Valentine Day is coming up why not a love story? He meets a she and together they encountered …. Cut! Last time I attempted to create a story the characters were demanding physical features, personal quirks and stuff like that. Been there, done that, finding it quite trite. What about a tale about a menacing menace stalking a timid mouse? The mouse can not find refuge in the kindness of a stranger so the rodent is forced to become a roaring tiger and becomes a beacon of the community.
"Hey, what are you writing, writing guy," asks an annoying acquaintance?
I should be at home attempting to work on this, yet here I am in a coffee shop. If you were sitting in a cafe looking like you are doing something intently, I would not impinge on your personal space. If you were twirling a pen, or tapping to the cafe's music, or playing with your hair, or your eyes are flagging you need attention- I would say hey. Well long as you are not him! If you offer one word to him you get blasted with words until the next Big Bang. I am pretending to be absorbed in this creative act. Writing in spite of the fact that nothing is happening. If I persevere eventually he will exit from the suburbs of my space.
"Writing guy, what are you writing," annoying one asks annoyingly again?
"I am combining letters, with periods, with commas, and with space and run on sentences," I force out.
"It is like Sci-Fi, Cosmic! "
"Actually it is much more macabre! Fate farted on my protagonist, and he is being stalked by an underemployed irritant."
"Why are you writing in Second Cup, are you getting a sponsorship," he asks?
"Would you prefer Tim Horton's?"
"Well, whatever rolls up your rim, W.G.," he laughingly says with a drum roll of ha-ha’s
Sobering up he asks me, "Why are you so controlling?"
It is a time like this when having a dark complexion is a grand ally. I am quite pissed off now and if I were paler the red rage flush would be noted. "What do you mean controlling?"
"Well in your stories the characters have minimal dialogue. You spend most of the time telling us what they say but rarely do they speak for themselves. I have heard you speak outside of this story, and you are for the most part trying not to hear and trying not to speak. When you are you in a story you say the character felt this and that and all the nuances revolving around this and that. Why can't you say, the character said quote XYZ unquote? Even God is less controlling than you are."
"Listen, I am quite ungrateful for your faux insights! I have an issue with bantering, so stop bantering!" I want to shout but this being a corporate public space would make me a red-faced donkey.
"Am I going to be in our story?"
"Hell, No!"
"Good! Not only are you controlling, but you are alienating."
"What, labeled," I say getting angrier?
"Look - what are you doing right now? Have you given me a name yet or am I generic he? I am removing your man purse off the chair opposite you and we shall chat."
I look at him and scroll through my mind seeking its name. "Robert," I say, "your name which I do know is not in this story. It is all about me." I regally sip from my cardboard cup while giving him ’you are below me’ look.
"Can I look at your story about us?"
"No, you can not! You should consider wandering off, I am certain there is a paranoia symposium at Seekers Books! Come to think of it, how can you go all deconstructionalist on my writing when I never shared my fiction with you?"
"Here we go again, petty creator playing omniscient God. You create all manifestations on your pages and judge the terrain good or bad. What about the characters? Is the world but a stage? Perhaps you have god envy? On a bigger scale you are not even a flake of dandruff on a louse nested in the hair of an x-rated film extra. Do these characters give their permission to be used?"
"Hello, this is what we call fiction, so ease up on the friction. You do realize I have an impingement policy- if someone distracts me they must pay. The cost of the ticket is a cappuccino. Ante up or exit!"
"I have no problem with that - can you spot me a fiver?"
"You are not seeing what I am saying, umm Robert."
"How would I see what you are saying if you refuse to let me see what you are telling me to say?"
"You are not real!"
"And you believe you are?"
"I create, thus I have little time to believe! I am quite firm in this creed!"
"To create require belief, or you would have zero time for composing. You would be awe struck at every fresh moment and would not climb into time to capture something imaginary."
"What do you think you are doing Rob?"
"The question would have more clarity, if you say -Rob is now thinking..."
"You are deranged! Who do you think you are?"
"I am not certain who I may be? Where are you going to move me next? I may be able to respond if you provide me with a cheat sheet. "
"Robert, what are you saying?"
"You have been writing and because you are deprived of any real life observation - created me. Not only are you controlling but in denial, - abstractionalist guy. "
"If you are my character, why are you annoying me?"
"I guess you subscribed to an annoying stance and I became your manifestation," said my maybe Robert.
"Well Rob if this is case I quit! I am the character, you are the writer."
I, Rob pause, rub my beardless chin and decide the narrator is not my cardboard cup of green tea and switch to a poem.
Crystallized in space, there a life pretend
an unknown face - this façade should end.
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