Writing about Writing

The writer examined his life and discovered he had absolutely nothing worth writing.

“My whole life has been writing. And reading. I’ve read a lot. All my memories are of me sitting in bed, reading or writing. My best moments in bed have been writing. All the great adventures of my life have been lived through fictional characters. I’m really quite a boring person. Huh.”

So, the writer wrote: I’m really quite a boring person. Huh.

The writer popped out of bed, tossing pen and paper aside, opening the closet door, getting to his knees to sift through a cardboard box filled with loose photographs. He was searching for specific evidence he existed.

He found he was in very few of his photos.

“I’m not even in my own photos! I took them all, but, they’re all of other people! Who am I!” the writer screamed at himself. He didn’t scream back, and the echo fell softly in his box of photographs.

The writer returned to his bed to write about a dinosaur biting the head off his noisy nextdoor neighbor until he could take it no more.

“I need something real!” He screamed at his echo. His echo kept its thoughts to itself. The writer picked up the phone and dialed a number at random.

“Hello?” Answered a promising voice.

“Hello, please, tell me, do you hear me?”

The person on the other end hung up.

The writer put down the phone, caressing the black phone-book he never used. He knew her number was in there, just as he knew it had been so long, he no longer knew it by heart. He thought about writing about her, his one great love, then thought about all the rejection letters he’d already received from the novel he’d already written in the blood of their relationship.

“Even the publishers rejected our love! We don’t even work in fiction! And that’s when I thought of us at our best!”

The writer thought about stabbing himself in the eye with his pen. He thought it probably best to walk back to his empty bed and finish the story about the dinosaur.


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