Obviously you are going to make a place to write, a writing station, the more obviously so the better. It helps if you have a writing hat, which makes for a personal cubicle, and makes it less obvious, dependin on your tipping slant or cock, whether you are working or sleeping, maybe to dream of your theme... and yes a writer needs a theme, lots of themes, a main theme of mine being birds as you can see from my hat and the pullets on the curtain rod behind my seat.
Then there is no excuse not to write except for lack of desire to write, or lack of a story, fear of never being able to stop, lack of experience, lack of a story again, or an imagination that is underexercied, and especially due to a mind running mostly on words.
I have most all of these problems, now and then, and now again a few nights ago I led myself to the writing station and told myself to improvise a bunch of first sentences Reading them over now, I don't remember any of them. Some are enough by themselves, some could go on, some should die. Some are stolen stories. In some i am carried way to far beyond the one sentence goal.
In the story about the plastic eggs with the messages in them, I must have typed the messages with my fingers out of position, because of the cat in my lap, the extreme lateness of the hour, or fumes from the ritualistic rum beside my chair. Any help decoding the messages would probably be a waste of your time, but go ahead, and let me in on it. It could be someone coming through from the other side. Also, if you care to go on and finish any of these stories, just get permission from the characters, and then go ahead.
So then, here are my midnight improvisations:
Once there was a story which, as told, ended when the lady fell off the street car and landed in a fruitt stall, but that was not really the end. Of course.
Thre were two of him and only one of her. That was the problem.
Once there was, or maybe a few times, has there been a person with cheek bones quite as prominent as his, and it was more than he could do, to locate his identiy in anything else, including his outstanding sucess in the farmed Truffel market.
The Parrot, named Polly because it was the only one ever known in the county, was found beside the rail road track when she was a little girl in Ohio and there is no telling how old it was at the time, being probasbly a performing circus parot, but Bernice had the parrot with her until it died eighty years later, where upon Polly was taxadermined and kept on in her cage until when Bernice died while well into her nineties. They had an open casket funeral with Polly, and the two were burried together.
The moment I walked into the place , seeing thjat it had a dirt floor and only three walls, I expected less elegance than I actuall encountered
Her third ear was not always obvious, beause of thje swath of hair she pinned over her left temple, where the ear resided, but of you ever noticed it, you felt deeply obsrved.
Every seven years Alistair Clair, otherwiose known as Stomwell Jackson, and Pom;pe Tympanum, would change his name for a year and try out another life, as much as possible avoiding legal fraud, and so on. The so on was the problem.
Four mlonths after she moved in with her cats, he moved into a trailer in the yard and that was working out pretty well
When she first mved onto the ;roerty, there was no shed out back, and then one day there it was.
When I first met her , she had not jet unfurled her wings
At first she didn not notice the large, ape like creasture in the hot tub.
for a week when she had gone to collect eghgs in the chicken house, she had found not regykr eggs, but placstic easter eggs: those two-part things you get with jelly beans in them, except that each of these chicken house eggs had a fortune cookei advisory on it, like, as in the fisst one, : nredstr pg upit nrdy wis;oyord/
ejrm jr eplr i[ om yjr ptmomh . jr trvlpmrf jr epi;fkidy hp nsvl yp c;rr[./
zoy dsd s fsu ;olr smu pyjrt fsu. rcvr[y yjr dlu esd gs;;;omh.
When they sold the farm to the other side of the family, they were able to move into town and live a life where you didn’t have to worry about being slammed against the side of the stall by a bossy cow, damn her hide
She did not notice that she had stepped on a star fish, until it had been with her for a while.
When she woke, she thought she smelled pancakes. but she lived alone in a doublewide trailer on four acres. Another morning it was bacon and, maybe potatoes.
My adopted brother William was handy on roofs where, because of his lower body dwxarfism, he could wxork all day without kneeling or bending. Heoccasionally worked on some of our Natural Bone construction projects over the years, most often sleeping nights on the work site, sleeping among the tools. No one ever complained, mostly no one noticed. . He did some garden work on his own and often then, lived in the garden, and sometimes with the encouragements of the ladies.
One lady in Cayuga Heights believed that gnomes are real physical beings, that William was one, and she was willing to pay him, whatever that might be worth, to be a resident gnome.
He was nt so sure he liked the notion that he was a gnome, or just exactly what as gnome was, or what was to be expected of him, but he took the job.
He didn’t have to be there all the time, and she paid him to build a funkty little cottage for his garden stays. She wanted there to be a steep roof but with the appearance of snow on it all the time. The artificial snow was a huge pain in the ass for William. Mrs Truebody was thinking paper mache … but William knew what the weather would do to that. He ended up using infvlated empty plastic milk gallon and qiuart containers striung up by ropes through the handles and covered all over with agricultural row cloth. You got the idea, but it didn’t look all that much like snow to William except when it snowed on it, and that was long after the garden tours came through. Mrs Truebody had him extend the fairy garden aspect of her poperty, making laterns and fairy houses until William just got sick of it all and went out West for a while
He felt safe and secure sleeping with his tools. Like the sons of Cornell Professors at the time, he was a carpeter, house painter,, At the time of this story , he usually slept in his van or on the work stie, in a bag, among his bags of tools.
For many yeas, she forgot she had ever been to Boston.
They collided like ships in the night.
He was the kind of guy who, when he walked into a room, no one noticed unless he coughed or cleared his throat or laughed at nothing, as he often did at odd times any way. No one liked him and he didn;t like anybody. He would be beneath your notice, except for his particular talent.
He had been away so long that his dog didnt reconnize him; bit him on the knee cap .
He had not been to an actual movie in an actual movie theathre for years now and when he sat down at all seemed familiar agin except for one thing ….. there were no oter people in the teatre. And then the film started.
It was not long before Mason realzed that the object he had pcked up was a subject. someting alive.
She attributed her long life and good health to a diet of worms, and because she was so old, many people thought she was serious, and some asked for recipeis.
