Inspiration for writing has been kind of nonexistent lately, so I dug into my archives for old crap and found this from a novel I started writing in 2007.
Every once in a while, I like to look at this and point and laugh at my younger self.
It’s the product of days of zerosleep and toomuchcaffeine. I was writing late one earlymorning night around wayyyy too long after my last sleep. Probalby 3:00 ish am.
My fingers were pounding keys seemingly at random. I fell asleep at the desk, woke up sticky-eyed blind, went to bed and found this on the screen the next day. I assume I wrote it.
Will picked up a book that was lying on the edge of the desk. He opened the front cover
and began reading:
“Words issue forth, spewed or dribbling, gathered together into neatly tied little packets;
phrases conveniently wrought with a pain unmentionable or else given no more meaning
than a pleasant how d’ye do? They lie upon the air, oozing wretched warmth and the
cloying aroma of soured milk. To say they were a great gift would be both an over
statement and a muddled attempt at self-worth. A long train of such pluralities stretches
from one infiniteness to the other. It gives happiness no more meaning that an un-flushed
toilet. It just is. To be caught up in such an amalgamation is the very essence of futile
plagiarism. Those creatures who leave the room upon an utterance of bare truth will attest
to this upon their final disintegration; their molecules sweetly placid among the foul
juices which once allowed them to lie. No, keep your precious hardened, diaper-wearing
verbiage and give me the exquisite agony of a severed limb from which springs forth the
force of my life like an army of fresh clean babies to enslave the future….”
Will let out a startled “Ahhhhh!” and dropped the book back on the desk as if it had
burned his hands. Don’t ever pick up that book again.
Melvyn, who had just come back into the room, chuckled knowingly. “Ah yes. My father
wrote that. Did I ever tell you my father was a writer?”
More like a torturer. “Um. No I don’t think so.” Will said, rubbing his hands on his shirt
in a vain attempt to wipe off the residue of the passage he had just read
“Yes.” Melvyn said with a wink. “He’s not a very good writer, but he’s passionate.”