Hello All,
Today I'm posting my first bit of "Free Fiction" on the blog, and it is my first ever published piece, entitled "A Brain Without Ink" which previously appeared in NewFoundSpecFic in April of 2009. While I wrote this piece almost a year ago, it's interesting to note how much my writing has improved since then.
It's also interesting to note that most established writers always hate on the first piece they published, and I am sadly, no exception. I've reached the point where I almost dread publishing this piece - but we all start somewhere.
And to prove that, here is the story.
A Brain Without Ink
by Devin Drover
I can't think. I can't do. I can't write. I sit here, at this table near my mansion door, ignoring the pain from the leg in which I broke, in that horrendous accident so many days ago...I ignore it, as I try to write. Try to let out the pain and make some more money on top of the big bucks I sit on here.
As I sit up at my old style typewriter – which I always find best to write the first draft of my nice piece of art, I contemplate on oh so many things. About what to write for my next big, number one selling novel. But for some reason, I can't.
I know, I know, I find it ridiculous too. I am the world's greatest writer, a creative genius, I'm Brian George, for god sakes, I can write a story with my eyes closed that'd be worth a thousand dollars.
But for some reason... It just doesn't work. Now this is the point where I'd probably get called some egotistical idiot – but it's true. I'm a genius and my writing is always *that* good. I'll write something soon...
But time is passing. My leg still pains and my stomach growls. But what do I care? I'm here to write this story and nothing more. I must do this, fulfill my contract obligations and make myself as rich as can be. I am a godly writer, indeed. Indeed...
I get distracted easily, watching the birds outside my window. What a joyful feeling it must be to be a bird. So free, with no worries, ever. Their lives revolving around the open sky, instead of the foolish cramped highways that we torture ourselves in. I want to be a bird. I want to be free...
An hour has passed, according to the small steel watch that I wear discreetly on my arm. It annoys me. Strongly. Has my ego has finally got to me? Why can't I write anything? This is annoying. Oh so annoying. Why?
OK, so it's been two hours. I'm startled, really am. I'm getting out of patience with myself. Getting angry - too angry. I need some coffee, I'm getting tired, but I'm not wasting my time. I need to get this done.
I feel like I'm going insane, and I'm hearing some tapping inside my thick skulled head of mine. Oh whatever could that be?
It's a loud tapping, and getting louder and faster. My heart beat is rising, almost equaling out to the beat of the ever speeding tapping. It's annoying, oh so annoying.
I'm far out of patience now, I'm not even near a straight level of patience, I'm angry. Oh so angry. I'm sweating from my forehead, my palms are getting wet. I'm going insane, here.
I can't stand these four walls. There annoying me. Seeing them in my sights for oh so long, annoying me. So tedious. I can't take this anymore, sitting in this chair, which is ever so aggravating. I kick it to the ground, throwing myself upwards, leaning, somewhat uncomfortable yet somewhat refreshed...a change of pace.
But it doesn't help. Refreshing feels like the cold side of the pillow, it gets old, quickly. I just can't take this anymore. I throw my arms into the air, almost admitting defeat as I flick over the table, knocking the typewriter to the ground, ripping the paper which it held, and tearing it to pieces, laughing sadistically as I rub the ink off of the page, removing the letters which it holds.
I've finally broken the line of insanity, as I remove the typewriter and toss it out the glass window to my side, I have another amazing thought. I run to the door to the patio from the room, kicking it down, spreading glass all over the place. I smile sadistically as I look down.
My long time fear of heights has suddenly ended at this sight. My own fear has been created, a case of writers block, OH yes...writers block.
It's so weird. What has become of me, why am I going so insane? Oh for god sakes, I want to be so free. Screw writing, screw this live.
I want to be free as a bird.
So, I do. I stand up onto the guardrail of the steel, dark step, and jump into the unknown images of the night, flapping my arms like those of wings, those of a crow. I become what I will, and I breathe my last breath. I am now as free as a bird.
Until I hit the ground.
Yep, that's that. Meanwhile, I'd like to remind you that the debut volume of NewFoundSpecFic is still for sale and I know for fact we are hurting financially right now - so feel free to pick a copy up online here. Not only will you get to see me with my early writing and editing blunders, you'll also get a book that features some other great up-and-coming Newfoundland writers including Matthew LeDrew and Ellen Curtis.
Thanks for reading!
- Devin
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