I wrote the following as an exercise, to see just how interesting I could make an ordinary day sound. Tell me what you think.
I woke up at nine in the morning. This was a surprise. For the last two days, I hadn’t woken up until two in the afternoon. I rolled over and went back to sleep. Why interrupt what was fast becoming a tradition?
My alarm rang an hour later. Well, beeped, anyway. Precious few alarms actually rang these days. A good thing, too – the last clock I owned could wake the dead with it’s little harmer vibrating wildly between the two bells. The whole thing fell to pieces soon after I bought it. Made in China crap. It didn’t even put a mark on the wall I threw it against.
This new one was digital, AC powered, ugly – and thankfully, had a really big snooze button. I hit it, and fell back asleep.
Interesting fact about alarm clock makers: to them, a snooze only lasts ten minutes. What the hell is up with that? What kind of terrible childhood did they have? I can just imagine it: “Nappy time, cuddly– kins!” Ten minutes later: “Back in the fields for you, devil-child!”
Terrible, just terrible. Even worse, this clock didn’t have an easy to reach off button. Rather, there was switch so sticky I had to use two hands – and far more brainpower then should be necessary – to budge it. So why bother? I might as well just get up. Yeah, yeah. Gonna get up. Gonna get up riiiiight nooooww…
Half an hour later I staggered into my (parents) kitchen, blinking in the harsh sunlight, bowls undecided as whether to take a piss or not, stomach likewise confused on the mutter of hunger. Morning sucks.
I stared at the phone in my hand, cursing Mr. Booth from the bottom of my heart. Phonophobia; Fear of Phones, that’s what I had. I’d never been good at talking to people, and not being able to see a person’s face just made it harder, not easier. I’m not really sure why. Ask a psychologist. Speaking of psychos, I once self-diagnosed myself as a partial sociopath. Now, though, I think its just apathy.
But back to phones: did I mention I don’t like them? But in this case I had to do it, because I wanted the paintball gun this guy was selling on craigslist. I dialed the number slowly, heart pounding, blood rushing to my head. My vision narrowed as I pressed the large button labeled “TALK” and raised the phone to my hear. As I began to slip into unconsciousness, I heard the voice of an angel… A computerized angel, telling me to go to hell because I dialed an invalid number.
Reality snapped back into place. Computers? I can handle computers, even sassy ones. I hung up, redialed the number – this time remembering the long-distance extension. My reservoirs of apprehension used up. I settled for pacing.
Ring… ring… ring… ring… Hi, y’got *name* please leave a message–
Click. I hung up up. Answering machines are, in a way, worse then humans.
Fast-forward a few hours later, and you’ll find me lounging in the backseat of our jeep, reading mangas, on the way to Coeur d’alene. In Coeur d’alene is a writing conference that my mom is going to. I decided to tag along to see if I could pick up anything,.
As expected, I didn’t. Writing cannot be taught – at least, not in the same way as, say, electrical engineering. But if we go with the number of consistently sucky fanfics on the internet, then we’d be forced to conclude that writers don’t get better over time, either.
So how do writers get better? I have an idea, that if true, will shake the very foundations of authorship. Writers advance in skill by devouring the souls and absorbing the talents of lesser writers! Remember that next time you look at the New York Times bestsellers list, and imagine the terror wrought to bring you these printed papers of prose.
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