Writing about writing: A fiction of sorts.

She grabbed her pen. No, wait. Okay. She snatched her pen. Quickly, yes quickly. She practically stabbed herself on the other freshly sharpened pencils in her cup trying to get it. She was a writer, bold and true. Bold and true? Fuck, that sounds pretentious. Let’s try this again. She was a writer, unabashed and unashamed. Unabashed, that’s good. That’s real good. Wait, what does that word mean? Hold on.

UNABASHED ˌənəˈbaSHt
adjective
1.
not embarrassed, disconcerted, or ashamed.

Oh, hell yeah, that’s me. Wait a second, disconcerted? Man. The Dictionary is always defining words with other words that you in turn have to go back and look up. Nevermind, back to it.

She dreamt of writing for one of those really awesome blogs. Like Mashable or Hello Giggles or some crap like that. No, don’t say crap. Sounds too casual, too unprofessional. She had always dreamed of guest blogging for someone like Mashable or Hello Giggles. Better. She thought about it. She wrinkled her nose. No, no, I don’t do that. Should I start wrinkling my nose? I’m going to see if I can do it for like, a week straight, whenever I’m thinking. Then, if someone asks me, “Are you thinking?” …then. Then it’ll be a thing that I do.

Back to writing. Words. Words. Wooords. Oh crap, this must be what writer’s block feels like. Maybe I need some wine. Wine is like, what Van Gogh drank when he was painting and stuff, right? Write? Oh man, that’s gold. Okay, please hold.

I’m back. I’ve got the wine. It’s the end of a bottle from last year, and I only got half a glass out of it, but I did find a bottle of clear rum in the freezer to top myself off. Am I supposed to end a sentence with off? It’s one of those words, what do you call them. Prepositions? And anyway, I’m not quite sure this was the same idea Van Gogh had. I’m also pretty sure I Googled Van Gogh last year, and he drank Absinthe, not wine. He also cut his ear off. What a nutter. Nevermind that, back to writing.

In college, I won an award for creative writing. It’s one of those things that you can always rub in other writer’s faces, and then they have to take you seriously. I think. Or maybe they just get pissed off, and correct your grammar or something. I always make grammatical errors. Ugh. I forget commas like it’s no ones business. I should really use them more. But my thoughts are always so…

I’m getting off track. I am writing about writing. The words flow out of my pen like an inky… river of truth. Wow! Sounds like a cool superpower. Inky river of truth! Like no one could lie with this enchanted pen, and then they would have to tell the truth. Maybe I should have given myself a word limit. Maybe I shouldn’t have mixed rum and wine.

I need to go practice wrinkling my nose.


Featured image from christabanister.com

2 thoughts on “Writing about writing: A fiction of sorts.”

  1. I like this stream of consciousness style. I would write like that but then everyone would think I was insane, for sure. My random thoughts tend toward the super disjointed.

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