This is what I drew today.
Super Random Super Secret Novel Excerpt:
Admittedly, I had some creative ability. I drew alright and I had a few creative ideas about things, especially about prefabricated walls – no, not really, ha! I took a pottery class in high school and I got an A, but none of this exactly qualified me for the creation and dispersal of art. Writing I was also fairly good at, probably better at it than art some would say. I had won a writing contest in second and seventh grade. For the one in seventh grade, I got 50 bucks. I spent that money on getting some new pants. They were hip huggers, I was oh-so-cool in them, or so I thought at the time, no, I'm pretty sure I was. The guys loved me even then. Girls were jealous because they were ugly, of course.
When I received the award and cash, the lady who was giving them out, a dried out woman nearing the end of her life with skin that seemed to be leaving her face in preparation for her coming death, said in my ear, while handing the check and award into my tiny grabby hands, "You make sure to keep writing, okay dear?"
I took the cash, shrugged and said, "Yeah, okay, whatever."
Much to that lady's disappointment, though she was certainly dead by now and could not care either way, I hadn't written a damn thing since. Well, I wrote e-mails, but that didn't count. Furthermore, I don't even capitalize my words! Punctuation? Ha! What a waste of time. Perhaps when I turned 60 I could settle down and write a book, but right now? I had better things to do, and if Eric was any evidence, this act of writing, to give myself over to it, it would only lead to my own demise, or, at the very least, it would make me insufferably pompous, almost as much as he was – and that was a scary thought.
Besides, I had a job, a real job, what good would writing do for me? I had nothing to say, I had no major problems to deal with, and no one wanted to read a book about a young 20-somethings life as a Target employee. It had been done, as I said, it had all been done, all been said, it was superfluous, that was the word. (Good word, put that shit in a book.) Besides, my job was pretty fun most of the time, and so there wasn't much whining to be done in the form of literature. You want to know how much work sucks? How hard it is to earn an honest living? The struggles of the common man? Well then don't fucking ask me about it.
