Friday, February 15, 13:05 CST
Stuff happened this week; stuff I could have written about. Thus I didn't
write about it, because stuff was happening. From where I sit, this isn't a bad
state of affairs. Otherwise, I'd be writing about nothing happening, and, well,
Wednesday, I turned 21. I drank some beer with friends. It was ok.
a fragment of chapter the first
What he had in mind was something epic. Something grand scale, like the fat
science fiction and fantasy novels he used to read, but not really fiction at
all. The kind of thing that they'd say defined a generation, like On the
Road or The Great Gatsby, except it wouldn't really be noticed by
the kinds of people who said those things and if you actually read it it
wouldn't seem so damn overrated. It could have a cult following, and a hundred
years from now, someone might stumble across it and realize he'd really had
something to say, and he'd been right all along, and maybe if more people had
noticed way back when the world would be a different place. But it wouldn't
really be the kind of book that inspired a movement or anything, it'd just
describe what was there so you saw it clear for the first time, and
even though he might write other things, this'd be the one that every now and
then would change somebody's life.
That was the kind of book he wanted to write, at least when he wasn't
daydreaming about being a rock star, finding a girl, or joining a revolution in
some distant time when things made sense and you could latch on to some nice,
clear cut ideological point like
raising humans for food is bad or
our alien overlords are despotic bastards and just run with it.
He would quite happily have settled for the girl. On days when he was
feeling particularly honest, he admitted that everything else was probably just
a convenient distraction from this fact. Even the book. In the face of the
music he listened to while daydreaming about being a rock star - loud, melodic,
and full of often clever lyrics expressing what it's like not to get laid - he
was forced to admit that he would probably more than settle.
Unfortunately, it wasn't to be.
:: write in the margins