Writing exercise: just write
[just write. you just need to break down that pre-judgment wall]
The house was shaped like a marshmallow, and had a flat conical roof, the red faded to a hint of orange after years in the mediterranean sun. It didn’t have windows, per se – they were more like small square holes punched into the curved stone wall. And one couldn’t see in, at least in the daytime. And that’s when I saw it. It looked as if it floated, but really it was sitting on a just-submerged coral reef. A similarly-supported stone walkway led to a blue wooden door, about as rough-hewn as the curved stones of the wall.
I didn’t think much of it when I first saw it, but I suppose that was the point – it wasn’t supposed to attracted attention, or inspection. It was supposed to fade into the background, like an artistic afterthought, a painter’s flick of the brush at the side of a painting which blends into the scenery to create a composition, not to be noticed as a singular image.
The wind danced ripples on the water around the house. Or was that from the darting fish? As I approached, I noticed that the ripples radiated out from the house, as though the house itself were vibrating.
[i’m getting this from my windows background image. anything that works, i suppose. keep writing, anything]
As I opened the door and crossed the threshold, I saw a small table with a lit candle shining upon a piece of paper. The room was otherwise empty, and as I approached the paper I saw it had a single word written on it: float. What did that mean, float? In the water? In the air? And where? I was expecting my next clue, but this was hardly a lead to the next location.
[how liberating it will be when you can write. give it a year. maybe several… you’ll get there]
I took the paper and went outside, into the bright light. “Float,” I thought. I knelt down on the stone walkway and looked into the water, looking for a clue, trying to understand. Several feet below the surface, on the top of the submerged coral, was the word ‘float’ written with what I think was algae, with a border the size of the paper. I lay the paper on the surface, matching the borders below.
Just then the paper started to vibrate, and grow. Then it grew some more and started to fold. I stepped back, then back further, as I saw the paper turn into a full-size, origami canoe. [it’s like breaking in a new paintbrush, you just need to keep using it] When one is a presented with an origami canoe, that, before one’s very eyes, grew from a normal piece of paper, one gets in. That’s what one does. And that’s what I did.
There was no breeze that I could sense, but as soon as I get in the canoe it started to move. I had no controls so I didn’t try to steer, but I also felt no need to – the canoe felt as though it were being pulled or pushed by a force that knew where it was going.
[i’m sick and trying to stay awake, but whatever. you’re writing something]
I noticed that the canoe made no wake, although I felt the drag of the water along the hull. It made me think of the way fish swim without noticeably disturbing the water. [just focus on the boat]
The canoe was made of paper, but it felt more like leather. I heard the faint trickle of flow along the hull. I didn’t know where I was heading, but I didn’t feel concerned because the canoe clearly knew where it was headed, or something did.
What would it be like to be a fish? Well, it would be normal. I think what I mean is what would it be like to be something else, but with your current consciousness? Or a raindrop falling from a massive dark gray cloud that expands for as far as one can see? I imagine it would be terrifying if I were to be a raindrop, because I’d have the consciousness of a human and not of a raindrop, and humans aren’t supposed to be completely exposed, 10k, 20k, 30k feet in the air in a massive dark gray cloud, plummeting to the earth. But of course raindrops don’t plummet, since they hit terminal velocity at a relatively low speed, which is why they don’t injure us when they fall.
[just keep writing. black pixels on white screen]
What would I see, falling? Well, once I escaped the cloud I’d see… [how do you write when you don’t know what to say?]
[you don’t need anything to say. just write. words. write words]
Just then a voice spoke: “How many are you?”
I looked up. “What?” I said, not sure if it was out loud or in my mind.
“You know,” said the voice, “it really kills the effect when I have to repeat myself. Please just pay closer attention. How many are you?”
“Just one, I guess,” said I. “But… can’t you tell? Aren’t you steering the boat? Can’t you see me?”
“Of course I can tell you’re one person, you numbskull,” said the voice, which was starting to remind me of my sister in my early years. “I’m asking a philosophical/psychological question. Now for the third godforsaken time: How many are you?”
“You don’t come across as one of those booming-voiced omnisciences one finds in so many movies. Are you some sort of petulant-voiced half-wit?” I was venting a bit of pique from having been insulted, and it was fun. “One of those drooling, heavy-eyed, foggy-brained dopes who suffers from chronic dehydration, the result of constant saliva loss from a sagging lower lip?” I was getting a bit carried away, but then again I was in an origami canoe being steered by another force anyway.
“Now wait a min…”
I cut the voice off. I was hangry and I didn’t know where I was or where I was going.
“Now that’s the point of my question, you over-ripe melon head,” said the voice. “You don’t know where you are, where you’re going, and, even worse, how many you are! No wonder they sent for you. You really need work.”
“Wait, can you read my thoughts?” I asked, wondering what I’d do if there answer were ‘yes’.
“Yes.”
“Cripes,” I thought.
“Cripes indeed,” said the voice in a sickeningly smug manner. “Who has the upper hand now, you thoughtless slug?”
“Take me to your leader!” I demanded.
“Who do you think you are, you web-footed toad? An alien?” Soft snickering echoed across the water from a collection of disembodied (unembodied?) voices.
Before I had time to think if toads, or just frogs, had webbed feet, I blurted out, “I’m a nonnegative integer!”
The voice let out a dramatic sigh. “You really need work,” it said. And then it stopped.
[just keep writing, even if it’s farcical nonsense. you need to break the shell, and that only happens with putting blank ink on white paper]
The mountain in the distance looked like a man’s face, flat and upward, as though he were just going to sleep.
“My Dear Abigail,
I don’t know if you’ll eve receive this. I write upon an origami canoe, and have just had an insult contest with a voice with no body. Weird, I know. But I was thinking of the time, years ago, when we went fishing. Do you remember you caught that fish and I swore it spoke to me before you threw it back? It’s been years since I thought about that, and you probably don’t remember. I thought I knew at one point what it said, but I can’t think of it anymore. And of course at the time I didn’t it worth remembering anyway. It’s just that for months after that, I tried to figure out if it was something I needed to act on. Anyway, I had a similar experience today.
[maybe i write a story like gulliver’s travels, where it has social commentary. i can use stuff i read about in the newspapers.]
Anyway, Abigail, at the end of that long, strange day I had an equally long, strange dream [dream-based story, good!], and it was narrated in the third person [slick. very slick. not really, but one must congratulate oneself even for the roughest of slick moves]
James (in my dream, the protagonist was named James). [no, i can’t launch into another story right now. let me describe something] When the canoe landed, James alighted… no, James tumbled out
[you’re not just fighting your own self-critique, but that of everyone else you imagine critiquing you]
James was many. He was one, yes – one person, a single human being. One body. A nonnegative integer of one. But inside, and I mean in his mind, he was many. Many voices. Or at least he was the spokesman for many voices. But what was his true voice? His authentic voice? Did he have one, or was he just a voice-of-the-moment, and while all his own voices sounded similar, no one voice could claim true James-hood. And why did he allow himself to be spokesman for so many other voices? Wasn’t there a core ‘James’ who could say ‘No. I’m not going to speak your words any longer.’?
And maybe that’s the struggle, or at least part of it? Maybe part of why it’s so hard to find one’s voice is because there are so many voices competing for attention, and we let ourselves become distracted?
Anyway. [maybe i try writing stream-of consciousness, just to stay so busy i filter out all the other voices.]
James floated in an origami canoe. White, but did it have to be white?
[ok, 2 hours. time for sleep]