Monday, June 29, 2015

As Strange As Fiction

I've been cleaning out my room. Because, you know, selling the house, moving to an apartment, starting over, etc.

Aside: Why is it that all of a sudden when I download
an image, it doesn't go to My Pictures any more? Anyone?
I've packed away a ton of memories, as is to be expected. I've also stumbled across a whole lot of things I'd forgotten about.

Kind of bittersweet, you know?

Google Image result for "bittersweet." OK, then.
Among the things I've found are lots of my old writings. Notepads, notebooks, loose sheaves of paper. Some typewritten, most handwritten. There are dozens of them, and they contain hundreds of poems, song lyrics, story fragments, and ideas for things I might write someday.

I've seen many things that bring back memories. And many that I'd completely forgotten about. About which I'd completely forgotten. Whatever.

One stands out, however, and I want to share it with you. Not the story itself, just the story of the story.

When I first started to clear out my room, I came across a large stash of things I'd written over the years. For the most part, I packed them away without poring over them much. It would have taken way (waaaaaaaaaay) too long, and probably would have served as a major trigger of long-buried emotions. Instead I simply sealed them in secure packaging and took them to storage.

Aside #2: Storage units are freaking expensive, you guys.
Once I'm settled, there's no way I'm continuing to pay
to store shit I don't even look at anymore.

But a couple of days ago, I found a stray notepad on the floor. I don't know where it came from. It should have been either in storage or in the trash, yet there it was, leaning against the door frame of my bedroom closet.

Like a goddamn omen or something.

In its pages was an incomplete story in my handwriting. I don't really remember writing it. And I really don't remember what my point was in writing it. It sort of goes on for a while, forming a vague narrative that I think I wrote maybe around or shortly after 9/11, but where I was hoping to go with it is a mystery to 2015 me. 

It's not really that good, to be honest. It's not terrible, but it screams first draft. First draft of many.

I wouldn't even be telling you about it, except for one thing. This evening I continued to clean out my room. It's taking a long time, because I own a lot more crap than I thought. Fucking America, we think we win if we own all the stuff.

If you think you need to own leaves, please think harder.
I found a spiral notebook. It contains a number of unfinished short stories, a bunch of handwritten eBay listings that I did eventually post to sell things, and...

...and an additional part of the same story that was in the notepad I'd found earlier.

Same characters. Same setting. Much better written. While reading it, I kept think of little tweaks and edits it needed to be really good. Because it could be really good.

Did I write the spiral part first, and the inferior notepad section later? Or vice versa? I HAVE NO IDEA.

I don't remember writing any of it. That's not unusual. I've written so much over the years that much of it was bound to fade into the background. Also, I've had other things on my mind for the last several years. Not by choice, but that's how life goes sometimes, amiright?

But the thing is, it's really pretty damn good. Like, I want to revisit it and revise it and finish it good. 


I've found a lot of weird stuff as I attempt to distill my life into a 963-square-foot space. But this weird, and rewarding, and pretty cool.

Would any of you be interested in reading it?

Just wondering.


  1. When my ex and I split up, I found a lot of scraps with good ideas on them.

    Someday, I'm going to dig down and use some of the ideas for new writing.

    And I read anything. Anything at all.

  2. I'm 7600 words into a tale with probably another 6000 to go. I'd really love some mental exercise. Story away!


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