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Sunlight and Other Excuses
The sky is blue and the page is white and I'll try to write tomorrow, I suppose. Because as lovely as the journal would look with the loops and swirls of my imagination scrawled across it, the outside world promises warmth and light and the flowers do not care about how many adverbs I use.
The birds in the treetops sing melodies more complex and lovely than any sentence I could hope to construct, so why should I bother? The flowers will smell just as good without the right adjective to describe them, and the air will still be fresh even if my ideas are not. The vines snaking across the gutter knit themselves together in living tapestries—vibrant and intricate and far more engaging than any plot I could formulate. So why fuss with a struggle that will end in disappointment?
Why bother?
The sky is grey and my tea is thin and I never liked trying to write in a coffeeshop, anyway. People bring a bustling noise that hangs in the air, clouding the atmosphere I was so certain would inspire me. Snippets of overheard conversation wind into my thoughts, scattering the tentative ideas gathering at the fringes of my mind. The interruption clings to me like a watertight film, barring me from bathing in the currents of inspiration.
Silence isn't much better, and I suspect distractions aren't even the problem, but what else is there to do? What else, but to take watery sips of a unsatisfying beverage and promise myself it'll be better at home? I'll write at home.
Later. That's the key.
Later later later.
The lock can stare me in the face, but I'll open the door later. I'll behold the awaiting riches later.
Why bother?
The sky is silver-clouded and your smile is gold and your hand in mine is as warm as the satisfaction of a well-phrased comparison in a sea of mediocre similes. Your smile is delightful, your laughter infectious, and under the influence of your enthusiasm I say something I haven't said in months.
I'm a writer.
It slips out like a confession. The whispered admission of a sinner, sliding into the space between us before I can stop it. But your eyes are dazzling, and they seem to believe me, so I do my best to ignore the voice at the edge of my mind, the one that whispers liar, liar.
Can I call myself a writer, really? When my pen hasn't seen words in ages? When the only world I've played in is the dull, winter-burdened one surrounding us? When I sit at my desk for hours on end, and all I have to show for it is a heap of ideas somehow worse than this one?
Am I still a writer if I do not write?
Why bother?
The sky is blue again and the page is still empty but your voice has been added to the chorus of birds outside my window so why should I bother. I can always write later—
liar
And gorgeous days were made to be enjoyed—
liar
And the sun upon our intertwined fingers is just as soothing as the cadence of pen on paper, of fingers on keys—
liar
And birdsong is much more pleasant than that voice in my head that tells me how rubbish this not-story is, and that I really don't need to write anything anyway—
liar
So I'll just go outside and write later.
Why bother
The sky is resplendent in azure and ivory and the garden is just as dazzling but all I can see is a blank page.
I guess that means I'm still a writer.
The birds in the treetops sing melodies more complex and lovely than any sentence I could hope to construct, so why should I bother? The flowers will smell just as good without the right adjective to describe them, and the air will still be fresh even if my ideas are not. The vines snaking across the gutter knit themselves together in living tapestries—vibrant and intricate and far more engaging than any plot I could formulate. So why fuss with a struggle that will end in disappointment?
Why bother?
The sky is grey and my tea is thin and I never liked trying to write in a coffeeshop, anyway. People bring a bustling noise that hangs in the air, clouding the atmosphere I was so certain would inspire me. Snippets of overheard conversation wind into my thoughts, scattering the tentative ideas gathering at the fringes of my mind. The interruption clings to me like a watertight film, barring me from bathing in the currents of inspiration.
Silence isn't much better, and I suspect distractions aren't even the problem, but what else is there to do? What else, but to take watery sips of a unsatisfying beverage and promise myself it'll be better at home? I'll write at home.
Later. That's the key.
Later later later.
The lock can stare me in the face, but I'll open the door later. I'll behold the awaiting riches later.
Why bother?
The sky is silver-clouded and your smile is gold and your hand in mine is as warm as the satisfaction of a well-phrased comparison in a sea of mediocre similes. Your smile is delightful, your laughter infectious, and under the influence of your enthusiasm I say something I haven't said in months.
I'm a writer.
It slips out like a confession. The whispered admission of a sinner, sliding into the space between us before I can stop it. But your eyes are dazzling, and they seem to believe me, so I do my best to ignore the voice at the edge of my mind, the one that whispers liar, liar.
Can I call myself a writer, really? When my pen hasn't seen words in ages? When the only world I've played in is the dull, winter-burdened one surrounding us? When I sit at my desk for hours on end, and all I have to show for it is a heap of ideas somehow worse than this one?
Am I still a writer if I do not write?
Why bother?
The sky is blue again and the page is still empty but your voice has been added to the chorus of birds outside my window so why should I bother. I can always write later—
liar
And gorgeous days were made to be enjoyed—
liar
And the sun upon our intertwined fingers is just as soothing as the cadence of pen on paper, of fingers on keys—
liar
And birdsong is much more pleasant than that voice in my head that tells me how rubbish this not-story is, and that I really don't need to write anything anyway—
liar
So I'll just go outside and write later.
Why bother
The sky is resplendent in azure and ivory and the garden is just as dazzling but all I can see is a blank page.
I guess that means I'm still a writer.
Sunlight and Other Excuses
TAILS (sum of 20 points)
T-4 A-4 I-4 L-4 S-4
Gestalt (Considered) : Strong
Technical (Correctness) : 4
Stylistic abuse of punctuation and capitalization, usually near italics.
Abstract (Clarity) : 4
A writer complains about not writing. It's better than it sounds.
Impact (Consequence) : 4
While aiming more for the literary-inclined (surprise!), any who creates can connect with this. There is a certain je ne sais quoi quality evoked, going nowhere but showing the pretty countryside.
Language (Congruence) : 4
This is mostly beautiful, with the mostly a fly in the ointment.
The first section is perhaps the best: Items are colors. Loops and swirls of imagination are (not) scrawled. Birds sing melodies more complex and lovely than any sentence. Vines snake and knit tapestries. There is elegance and coherence between the strong imagery and the idea at hand.
Unfortunately, the quality degrades—seemingly at random—as the scenes progress. Snippets (of conversation) wind about and scatter ideas. Bustling noise hangs (though clouding atmosphere works). Why a watertight film instead of oily? Why just 'watery sips of an unsatisfying beverage'? Admission slides between two people, but eyes are "dazzling" (how droll!).
Were this decline more systematic—skills atrophy through disuse—it would be understandable; as-is, however, it speaks of impatience or lack of attention.
Structure (Composition) : 4
Ad-hoc. By design(?) the story builds to nothing. What remains is a pastiche or patchwork quilt of scenes tied to the core theme of 'why bother?' Structured non-structure, perhaps.
TAILS (sum of 20 points)
T-4 A-4 I-4 L-4 S-4
Gestalt (Considered) : Strong
Technical (Correctness) : 4
Stylistic abuse of punctuation and capitalization, usually near italics.
Abstract (Clarity) : 4
A writer complains about not writing. It's better than it sounds.
Impact (Consequence) : 4
While aiming more for the literary-inclined (surprise!), any who creates can connect with this. There is a certain je ne sais quoi quality evoked, going nowhere but showing the pretty countryside.
Language (Congruence) : 4
This is mostly beautiful, with the mostly a fly in the ointment.
The first section is perhaps the best: Items are colors. Loops and swirls of imagination are (not) scrawled. Birds sing melodies more complex and lovely than any sentence. Vines snake and knit tapestries. There is elegance and coherence between the strong imagery and the idea at hand.
Unfortunately, the quality degrades—seemingly at random—as the scenes progress. Snippets (of conversation) wind about and scatter ideas. Bustling noise hangs (though clouding atmosphere works). Why a watertight film instead of oily? Why just 'watery sips of an unsatisfying beverage'? Admission slides between two people, but eyes are "dazzling" (how droll!).
Were this decline more systematic—skills atrophy through disuse—it would be understandable; as-is, however, it speaks of impatience or lack of attention.
Structure (Composition) : 4
Ad-hoc. By design(?) the story builds to nothing. What remains is a pastiche or patchwork quilt of scenes tied to the core theme of 'why bother?' Structured non-structure, perhaps.
Welp. That was something new. I skimmed through it the first time thinking it was just a meta 'didn't have time to write and put it off' story. Was I ever wrong.
This is actually a quite sad and heartwarming story. Probably everyone has put off writing for this exact reason; the fear it won't match up to what's already out there, the frustrating inability to articulate a thought, the distraction of something more enjoyable.
You, sir and/or ma'am, are brilliant.
8.5/10
(It's a bit scattered and jerky, sorry!)
This is actually a quite sad and heartwarming story. Probably everyone has put off writing for this exact reason; the fear it won't match up to what's already out there, the frustrating inability to articulate a thought, the distraction of something more enjoyable.
You, sir and/or ma'am, are brilliant.
8.5/10
(It's a bit scattered and jerky, sorry!)
It was a dark and stormy night, and someone set out to write an ironic story... :P
This was pretty great. I'm not entirely sure I grasped the whole of what the MC felt was significant about seeing a blank page that it turned the entirety of what came before on it's head? However, it did communicate emotion very well, and the nice ending was nice - even if it's not entirely sensible to me.
Good work overall.
This was pretty great. I'm not entirely sure I grasped the whole of what the MC felt was significant about seeing a blank page that it turned the entirety of what came before on it's head? However, it did communicate emotion very well, and the nice ending was nice - even if it's not entirely sensible to me.
Good work overall.
In a way, an alternate take on the ideas presented in Performance Evaluation.
Hm. This is a bit of a weird one for me. It is technically quite well written (probably the best on my slate thus far?), but in a way, that sort of works to its detriment, I feel. There is something... disingenuous about a very poetic, MFA-ish sounding struggle to write story. That said, I can't really fault it for anything except perhaps being overwrought, but that is, by nature, what the piece wanted to be.
I am definitely the wrong audience for this, though.
Hm. This is a bit of a weird one for me. It is technically quite well written (probably the best on my slate thus far?), but in a way, that sort of works to its detriment, I feel. There is something... disingenuous about a very poetic, MFA-ish sounding struggle to write story. That said, I can't really fault it for anything except perhaps being overwrought, but that is, by nature, what the piece wanted to be.
I am definitely the wrong audience for this, though.
I think I'm not the target audience for this, either.
This was a very pleasant read (and I could've sworn Dubs wrote this, had he actually entered this time around) but the narration has a poetic quality to it that affects this sort of higher possible meaning. Or at least, I assume so, because there's not really a whole lot here on the surface. It's really just a light exploration of writing, the conflict of whether writing is worthwhile, and procrastinating, and calling yourself a writer even if you don't write. I feel like they're just small dips into these ideas and not much else. I feel like I wanted something to tie it together.
Maybe all these feelings confirm that you are, in fact, a writer if you feel them? That they're natural and common feelings for a writer? I feel like I'm longing for structure, even though as Kwirky points out, that may be the point: structured non-structure.
I dunno. Pleasant read, but to paraphrase Mr. Plinkett, I felt like I was eating icing without cake.
This was a very pleasant read (and I could've sworn Dubs wrote this, had he actually entered this time around) but the narration has a poetic quality to it that affects this sort of higher possible meaning. Or at least, I assume so, because there's not really a whole lot here on the surface. It's really just a light exploration of writing, the conflict of whether writing is worthwhile, and procrastinating, and calling yourself a writer even if you don't write. I feel like they're just small dips into these ideas and not much else. I feel like I wanted something to tie it together.
Maybe all these feelings confirm that you are, in fact, a writer if you feel them? That they're natural and common feelings for a writer? I feel like I'm longing for structure, even though as Kwirky points out, that may be the point: structured non-structure.
I dunno. Pleasant read, but to paraphrase Mr. Plinkett, I felt like I was eating icing without cake.
Not azure, cerulean.
The prose is wonderful, but some phrasings ring a bit strange in this mellow flow of tinkling bells, such as: Your smile is delightful, your laughter infectious, and under the influence of your enthusiasm I say something I haven't said in months. The underlined phrase I found a bit weaker.
Nitpicking, what else is left when faced with such prose quality?
The prose is wonderful, but some phrasings ring a bit strange in this mellow flow of tinkling bells, such as: Your smile is delightful, your laughter infectious, and under the influence of your enthusiasm I say something I haven't said in months. The underlined phrase I found a bit weaker.
Nitpicking, what else is left when faced with such prose quality?