A writer’s desk by MC
I have always suspected that there is greater fun in writing just “evocative” or “arresting” passages rather than creating a whole novel around them.
Over the years I have accumulated many free floating characters with a rich stock of what I think are evocative or arresting lines. All I need now is to develop plots (as in stories and not in real estate) which they can inhabit without the fear of being foreclosed upon.
I am, in fact, racing to finish three novels simultaneously, which I have arbitrarily scheduled for publication in the next eight to twelve months. I have managed to weave in these three novels some of my lines and characters which have gathered a fusty datedness because they have been lying around unused for the better part of the last three decades.
One of the characters that has been screaming at me to be rescued from my frenzied imagination and settled in the more salubrious climes of a novel is a writer who thinks he is too picturesque and profound to succeed in the real world. The real world would be the one he imagines to be so in the setting of a fictional world.
I like this particular passage from this fictional writer who also, like me, believes in writing only “evocative” or “arresting” passages rather than creating a whole novel. It is his fantasy that a journalist chances upon his passages and embarks on a search for the author. When the journalist finds him, he first feels deceived and angry because there are no fully conceived novels but soon begins to unravel layers of a deeply flawed mind.
So here is one of the passages that this fictional writer in my non-existent novel wrote to ensnare a journalist who does not exist because the novel, both by him and about him, does not exist.
“All writing is barely disguised conceit. Mine is not even that barely disguised. It is more like a stripper who slides up and down a polished steel pole fully aware of her covetous audience but still disengaged from it.
Stripping for her is the ultimate camouflage—the more she sheds the less visible she becomes.
There comes a point where all her wantonly lascivious customers see is a blur defined on its edges by their own lust.
I suspect my writing also begins like the stripper working the pole in the first few moments of her routine when she is full of promise, sharply defined and utterly seductive. A few moments into her routine or a few paragraphs into mine we both become a blur.
In the stripper’s case there is at least that promise of a happy ending. In my case, it is neither happy nor much of an ending….”
P.S.: This is such self-indulgent drivel. I blame it on the effects of the impending head-on collision between our Milky Way galaxy with the Andromeda that I wrote about yesterday.