Aardvark Posted July 9, 2003 Report Share Posted July 9, 2003 He gently blew on his hand as he stared at the sight before him. The result of the last four days had been a 300 page paperstack of flowing cursive, surrounded by broken, empty, useless pens. But it was finally complete. A novel. His first. Hopefully not his last. Written in his beautiful handscript, his flawless creation straight from his brain to the paper, via the many pens he'd sacrificed to create it. But... Often, his friends and family had recommended he make the switch, like most writers, to computer, or at least typewriter. The amount he wrote, he'd cause himself serious wrist strain, they said. He took no notice. He loved writing, he loved handwriting, he loved the way letters and words looked and felt as they were formed on the page. Each piece warmed his heart as his eyes followed the ink across the page. He felt as though a little piece of his soul was transferred through the pen. Only... He'd always written like this. Blue ink biros on plain A4 paper, lineless. He'd heard some claim pages to be a dam in their stream of consciousness, others claim biros lack the old charm of a good fountain pen or, in some rare cases he'd heard of, quill and ink. Yet others still scorned ink altogether, claiming a pencil the superior choice for creating a story. They could do what they liked. Biros were inexpensive and could be bought by the boxful. Sure, they ran out often due to the sheer volume he wrote and they were plagued with inconsistencies that could spoil the flow of his work, but he never felt right unless his hand was guiding a ballpoint across the page. Always the same paper, too. The same low-grade paper used in common printers and photocopiers. He didn't need lines. Still... After creating a piece, he would use his photocopier, a state-of-the-art machine itself loaded with professional paper, to create the copy he would mail to his love and agent, who would then type up and offer to various publications. His work was always in demand, rare for a writer of his calibre. He could easily make enough from each piece to get by. But to simply get by is rarely satisfactory. Thus his novel. 300 pages of his beautiful script. Finally completed. He placed the final page on the stack. He'd proofread his work three times. As flawless as usual, it conveyed every image his mind had funnelled onto the paper perfectly. But there was something missing. Something he couldn't put his finger on. Of every piece he'd ever created, none had felt this... off. As if he'd forgotten something. Reading it felt nothing like any other piece he'd created. It was as if he was reading another writer's work, in his script. It felt... fake. He shook his head clear and prepared to go over it once more. This feeling was so wrong, he simply couldn't release his work like this. But he had put too much time and effort into it, he couldn't simply bin it. It was, in his opinion, a fantastic story that had to be told, just... not like this. Not until he found why he was dissatisfied with it. He lifted the final page and lightly traced his fingertips under the last few words. He was startled by a phone ring. Just once. His imposing aura had once more intimidated a potential publisher, he humoured. Or, more than likely, someone had realised not early enough they'd just dialled the wrong number. His eyes returned to the page. Oh Blood He'd cut himself. A small nick on his thumb, but enough for blood to dribble out, onto his page. Safely away from any ink, however. He thought about getting a bandaid, then it struck him. Oh, how pathetically simple. He couldn't believe it. He took up one of the depleted pens, dipped it in the blood spot and signed his name. There. Complete. After patching himself up, he set about the tedious task of copying the entire thing. His love had assured him that she was fully capable of copying his works without ruining them and he believed her. He just didn't trust fate not to intervene if he ever parted with the original. Copied in glorious colour, the glossy paper showed the bloody signature darker than it was. He smiled. It didn't matter. His work was now complete. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Alaeha Posted July 19, 2003 Report Share Posted July 19, 2003 I like this. A lot. All writers must have eccentricities... and this one certainly does. Best of all, he recognizes them and compares them with those of others, which is always fun to do. Mildly surprised that this didn't get any commentary... Oh well. I made the first reply! I'm proud of myself now! *Laughs* I like the way he signed his name... Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Ayshela Posted July 19, 2003 Report Share Posted July 19, 2003 HOW in heaven's name did i not see this on one of my flying trips through the halls here??? i love it. especially with the conversations we've had about favorite writing instruments, etc (though i don't believe we've covered favorite paper yet.. there's an idea! lol) my little bitty mind boggles at the idea of writing anything once and never editing it, but perhaps some are clever enough to get it right the first time. i never have been. but, yes, i love this. eccentric to the end, and yet in a way most could nod and smile to themselves about, seeing themselves in bits of it. wonderful! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
WrenWind Posted July 22, 2003 Report Share Posted July 22, 2003 enjoyed this very much. An intresting perspective . Well done Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Rhapsody Posted July 28, 2003 Report Share Posted July 28, 2003 Charmingly eccentric. The last act of completing his work was ingenious, albeit disturbing. Reminds me a bit of myself in the process of writing. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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