Start Fiction:
Jake liked a blank page about as much as he liked an empty whiskey bottle. Both needed to be full. However, they were always at odds with each other. One slipped away as the other came into being.
Jake fought with himself about all the drunk writing he had been doing lately. He felt the whiskey was cheating somehow. If it was just a way to let himself relax and let his talent flow from his pen, as Susan always told him, why did it always cause him such dispair upon a sober read of a completed piece?
All this drinking just to be able to write wore on Jake. He was of the mindset if he were truly talented, he should be able to write as well sober. But, that simply was not the case.
And why was that, exactly? He held vague memories of getting stories started, talking out some of the details with Susan as she helped him christen yet another bottle. However, when it came to reading a completed piece under sobriety, it was almost all, well, unfamilar.
Not completely unfamiliar, mind you, as the writing was his style and the general plot was his rough idea. But, the characters were well developed, the setting was descript and the dialouge was smooth.
Jake wondered when he learned such skill, such technique to bring together such a fluid piece in a drunken state. Was he talented, or just lucky? Did the whiskey really effect his ability? And even if he didn't remember writing some of the previous night's work, is it any less his work?
The despair drove him to drink. The drink drove him to write. The writing drove him to live. But feeling as though the writing wasn't truly his, the drive to live seemed to be slipping away.
Jake stared at the bottle of whisky as it sat on the table like a centerpiece. Fitting, he thought. Such as my table, the whisky has begrudgenly become the center piece of my life.
End Fiction.
No comments:
Post a Comment