One-Word Title, Like a New York Restaurant
But this doesn’t feel right, does it? You seem to be getting uncomfortable. It’s probably best to turn away before Whoever-He-Is wakes up and there is talk of cheekbones, like in a three-dollar paperback – with Fabio on the cover – that twelve year old girls try to smuggle out of the drugstore before their mothers see.
It starts with a single idea or observation.)
Perhaps there is a dark smear of ink on the pillow in some almost-distinguishable shape. You do not yet know how it came to be there or what it almost-resembles; but this is how the story starts, so it must be relevant.
Perhaps there is a weak beam of light filtering through the tattered blinds, illuminating the sugar-plum dance of dust particles across the sixteen-by-twenty-foot expanse. Cavernous, no? This studio apartment is a post-college luxury, but you’re not supposed to know that yet. Just like the new day that is doing its best, as we speak, to cross enemy lines, you have just been born and know next to nothing about the universe. But do try to keep up.
(Speaking of the universe—the single idea bloats a la Violet Beauregarde, only less blueberry-like, into an environment, a setting. Context? I think so. It is hasty, but we do not always have time for organic development. Just consider yourself fortunate I have omitted a reference to Alice in Wonderland. We do not like clichés.)
The beam of light makes it past the sugar-plum dust and perhaps illuminates tousled dark hair and a smooth expanse of tanned skin on a muscled back. I could have done worse, no?
(Then again, I don’t exist yet. Patience, my little newt.)
But this doesn’t feel right, does it? You seem to be getting uncomfortable. It’s probably best to turn away before Whoever-He-Is wakes up and there is talk of cheekbones, like in a three-dollar paperback – with Fabio on the cover – that twelve year old girls try to smuggle out of the drugstore before their mothers see.
Okay, fine.
The beam of light makes it past the sugar-plum dust and perhaps illuminates only a mess of tangled sheets soaked in last night’s sweat: a cotton-polyester concave where a real person ought to be. But then, this would be a story about loneliness. That’s entirely too easy for you—you are a bit masochistic and most definitely want to work just a bit harder. Mister Dark Hair is back. He doesn’t turn around, though; he is still passed out. He can be relevant while unconscious.
(Consciousness of—? Why yes, Virginia, we do have a protagonist.)
At this point, I am supposed to alert you to my existence by a gesture in the third person, but it seems too impersonal in light of our history together. I hope you’re not uncomfortable again.
I make some sort of movement to alert you to said existence. Maybe my eyes flutter open as if from a pleasant dream. I may swat at a spider that has been creeping up my forearm, or be stirred by the rumbling in my stomach, regretting the fact that I drank my dinner last night. Given the smear and Mister Unconscious, I’ll let you guess which. Oh, the smear is back? Why, yes; you still cannot make out what it is, but there is a mirror image on my hand, presumably put there by some bouncer at a bar for the purpose of re-entry. To be sure, it is also smeared somewhere on my face: I’m a restless sleeper. There is cohesion to the story now, but you’re getting much too excited.
“It’s about loneliness after all!” No. Try again.
“Regret? Alcohol and men, what else can it be?” Strike two.
“Empty, meaningless existence?” You know, if you wanted to read about ennui, you should have just grabbed the portable Dorothy Parker collection and left well enough alone. You’re bad at this. You really just ought to let me continue.
(Some action to move the story forward, yada yada, it doesn’t really matter what I do for the next five minutes because)
You discover a small detail or two about the universe that gives you an insight into who I really am as a person. My character, I suppose. I walk to the bathroom to wash my face, and on the plastic tile around the sink you see a sprinkling of white powder.
I wish I were exciting enough for a drug addiction, so I am sorry to let you down in this instance. It’s only Clorox from when I scrubbed the tub yesterday morning. I clean when I’m stressed out (You can add that to your Small Detail collection and make some inferences regarding our little universe, the smear, and Mister Tanned Skin).
I put on the nearest clothing (blue terrycloth bathrobe) and footwear (black stiletto pumps) and head outside to enjoy my morning cigarette.
(Perhaps I will die of lung cancer while giving birth to an underweight baby. Somehow that doesn’t seem to matter this early in the morning. Or late in the afternoon. Or sometime during this day that ends with -Y. Okay, we like some clichés.)
The world is simply oozing cheer and festering with productivity. The newspaper boxes get filled by the faceless and underpaid, while the bums emerge onto their corners, ready to throw your sandwich back at you because, damn it, they wanted cash.
I finish my cigarette and try to head back indoors, but you rudely try to stop me. Apparently, while I was observing the New Day begin outside, I was supposed to have some sort of revelation. There was some grand conclusion I was supposed to arrive at which would give you insight into adulthood. Perhaps a new worldview? Or maybe a commentary on city life and alienation; your type sure seems to like those. You nod vehemently; I am definitely on the right track.
“A story isn’t a story unless the protagonist undergoes a Change!” So now I’m supposed to change for you? We are barely acquaintances, please. Just because we speak informally does not mean you can go about making demands and such. I think I’ll go back upstairs to my fiancé instead.
“Fiancé!? But I thought Mister Muscled Back was a one-night stand!”
Really now. Is there any reason at all that he should be?
“Yes! Typically in stories, the protagonist goes through difficulties and makes bad decisions. That’s what makes the writing interesting.”
Oh, my; aren’t you agitated? If anything I should be the upset one, since apparently I can only amuse you through my suffering. Granted, the Mister is not my fiancé. My point is, however, that there is no reason for him not to be.
There is no reason that I didn’t stress-clean because I was nervous before going into the legal firm at which I work because yesterday was the day Mr. Wendell would let me know whether it was I or Jeremy from Contract Law who got the promotion. There is no reason that my whatever-he-is didn’t take me out on the town to celebrate my being the first woman to make partner in the history of the firm. There is no reason I wasn’t fully satisfied while smoking my cigarette until I realized that, to my chagrin, I would be going to work slightly hung-over on my first day in the new leadership position. Cue temporary embarrassment but general contentment with my life.
You feel led on; used, even. Yet I don’t understand why happiness appalls you so. Do you also look at photos of puppies playing in the garden and say, “Great! Now let’s see one of them getting hit by a Mack Truck”? Wouldn’t that be interesting? Oh, you think I’m being unfair. How about the fact that you wouldn’t like me unless I was coked out, being shot at, or clinically depressed? How the hell is that fair?
Sigh. I suppose this whole writing business really is about you. Maybe it is time we part ways after all. I really enjoyed our time together, but I have to get ready for work now and down some coffee, and you apparently have some Sylvia Plath to re-digest. I did my job; I unsettled you. Granted, it’s not in the way you really expected, but, again, isn’t that the point?
I promise, though: I’ll call you the second the Mister leaves me, I get fired, and start to eat my feelings in Thin Mints and Tagalongs. Scout’s honor.
