I can't write

[peachy]

generic old bull****:

We all so desperately want to think we are special. We want to think that we are unique, and that we will be successful, that we are destined for greatness. We look up at the sky and think, "One day the stars will read my name," and we close our eyes and we dream. Laying on the cool grass of suburbia, breathing the fresh air, fingers sticky from watermelon, we dream.

Eventually, life catches up with us. It beats us into submission. We aren't special, we aren't unique, we aren't going to be successful, and our destiny is the ****hole of an apartment in the bad part of town. The closest to divinity our name ever gets is when the boss' receptionist calls you in, because he wants to talk to you.

I've flunked out of college. I've burnt out of any creativity that I had. I've been jaded with life. I work a white collar office job in a cramped mouse box of a cubicle, and I live in a stinking ****hole. I was in smart classes, man. Smart classes! I was supposed to be great. I was supposed to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or a scientist, but no, I'm sitting here, wondering why the boss wants to see me, and I'm thinking about which microwavable dinner I should eat tonight. And I think, all in all, I haven't done too badly for myself.

I got fired. Its funny, you work somewhere for 10 years, 10 long, hard years, and one day your boss calls you in, and tells you to get out. I arm-wrestled with a guy at a bar once, and he snapped my arm in half. I didn't realize my arm was broken because I didn't feel it break. All I heard was the snap. I never realized how strong of arms my boss had until he told me, "You're fired."

So I'm clearing out my possessions from the desk. It's funny, you work the same desk for 10 years, 10 long, hard years, and when it comes time to clear away your presence, you can hardly fill your pockets. With me I take my pen, my paperweight, my poster with a pseudo-witty office comment (I hate Mondays). I look at the stapler sitting on my desk, and I feel obligated. I steal it.

I make my way to the elevator. Just as the door begins to close, somebody slips in to break the solitude of my ride down. It's the cute girl from across the office. I think I pass her by at lunch every day. Some people have fantasies in elevators. They imagine that a beautiful woman will let their hair down, loosen their shirts, and make love to them, then and there. Not me.

She gives me a quick smile, and says hi. I smile back and reply Hello, how are you-

The ding of the elevator breaks the silence that had fallen over the elevator since she had walked in. Who am I kidding? She leaves the elevator without as much as a glance, and the doors close again. Another ding, the doors open again. I move out to the parking garage to drive home. One problem: my car isn't there.

My car isn't there.

"Oh god," I say aloud, "my car isn't there."

Is this where I parked? I think to myself. Yes, I'm sure of it, this is exactly where I park every day.

"Oh god," I say again, "my car isn't here."

Oh god.

Several hours later, security informs me that someone stole my car, but the security footage wasn't able to catch anything regarding the thief. One of the guards asks if I want to see my car get stolen. "We have it on tape," he offers with a grin.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity of walking, I arrive at my apartment. The good news? I don't have to answer to anyone yelling at me, "You lost your job?" because my family lives miles and miles and miles away, my friends are off doing their own success thing, and my girlfriend- well, let's leave it at that. All I have is my trusty companion who is always understanding and willing to lend a shoulder to cry on: my cardboard stand-up of Clark Gable.

The bad news? I don't have to answer to yelling at me "You lost your job?" because my family lives miles and miles and miles away, my friends are... well, you get the picture.

"How was the day at the office," Clark asks, like he always does. Good ol' Clark, you can always count on him to try and brighten up my day. It doesn't matter how ****ty I feel, all I have to do is walk into my apartment, and there he is, with his wry little smile, his moustache, his overcoat, and everything is all right.

I punch his head off.

I don't feel like mincing words with him today.

I make my way to my life savings, saved for exactly for days like this. I've been saving my whole life, you know, and it's been waiting for a moment exactly like this. I open the box, and I bask in the shower of golden light coming from my glorious riches, supplemented by the chorus of angels. After a moment of savoring the, well, moment, I look in the safety box. Fifty dollars.

Fifty dollars. I arm-wrestled with a guy at a bar once, and he snapped my arm in half. I didn't realize my arm was broken because I didn't feel it break: I didn't realize my arm was broken, because I didn't feel it break. Something inside me snaps. Fifty dollars. It's funny though, this time, I couldn't hear anything break, but I sure as hell could feel it. I can't take this anymore. I take my fifty dollars, and go to a bar. Fifty dollars later, I stumble back into my apartment.

Now, I'm a logical person. I was in smart classes. I see the obvious solution: I'm broke, without a job, without a car, lonely, and drunk. I write a suicide note with my pen, and leap out of my window.

Of course, being the logical person I am, I forget that my apartment is on the second floor. I fall 20 feet and hit the ground. Hard.

Then I remember that attempting suicide is a crime. ****. Do you know what they do to guys like me in prison? In this moment of sheer brilliance, I stagger back up to my apartment to finish the job.

You would think that after the first time, I would have learned that falling 20 feet won't kill me. You would think that maybe I would learn, and hang myself, or maybe use the knife that sat there in my kitchen, or maybe I would jump in front of a bus instead of staggering and enduring step after agonizing step up the stairs to my apartment.

So here I am, lying on the ground after having taken two 20 feet falls. I think I might have broken something, because something inside me hurts, but I don't care anymore. I was in smart classes, man. I was in ****ing smart classes. I limp to the grass, lay myself down, and suddenly I'm back to my childhood.

The cool grass is still there, but everything has changed. My fingers are sticky, but it's not watermelon that made them sticky, its blood. The air is warm, and it gets caught in my throat. I remember the girl. Her smile. I stare up at the sky, maybe looking for an answer, maybe looking for a sign, or maybe just to lose myself for a little bit longer. Thunder resounds in the distance. It starts to rain.

By the time I'm able to crawl back to my apartment, I'm soaked. Slowly, and painfully, I dry myself off, and change into my only clean change of clothes. My eyes fall onto my suicide note.

I'm not stupid. I'm not going to jump again. There's a nagging voice in the back of my head, "What if someone finds the note? They saw you jump out the window. If they see the note they'll put two and two together. You know what they do to guys like us in prison?!"

I get my lighter, and as I start to burn the note, thunder strikes the power line, and the room blacks out. I look down at the paper, now gently writhing in flame. Maybe it's the loss of blood, maybe it's the excruciating pain, maybe it's because I have a concussion, but I'm starting to think this isn't so bad. I watch the smoke trail away from the note and I watch the flames eat the paper and it's refreshing and I take a deep breath and I think:

Oh god, my hand is on fire. I shake my hand violently to put it out, and then everything is dark, and I can't hear anything but the patter of the rain.


We all so desperately want to think we are special. We want to think that we are unique, and that we will be successful, that we will be happy, and we so desperately want to think that we are destined for greatness. We look up at the sky, and we strain our eyes, and we squint, and we squint, and we delude ourselves, and we point up and we say, "That's me, written in the sky."

But that's not the case.
"For the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain"

Life beats us into submission, and life beats us into submission, and life beats us into submission. It wants us to give up. It wants to rub our faces down in the ****-stain of our own existence and it wants to hit us on the nose with a newspaper and it wants to say "No."

"No."

"Bad dog."

This is rock bottom. This is the end of the line. This is me, at my worst, and you know what? **** it.

[Seraph]

Re: I can't write

EDIT: Didn't see this was the imaginary thread.

Nice story.

[Kefka Jr.]

Re: I can't write

I liked that a lot, man. The content has been visited, but you got a pretty funny voice going.

[Hrafn]

Re: I can't write

I like it.

[highwind]

Re: I can't write

well done.

[Alex]

Re: I can't write

Yes very nice. Balances out that religious bull**** you pulled out earlier.

[Dusk Raven]

Re: I can't write

It was about around the suicide part that I realized it couldn't be real. I mean, where is suicide a crime?

That's gripping.

[Toaster]

Re: I can't write

I like the tone you've got going, it's like the voice of a cynical film-noir detective.

I don't mean to sound nit-picky. But you said "I can't write". My advice would be to include some more imagery that strikes particular and indistinguishable moods.

[highwind]

Re: I can't write

It was about around the suicide part that I realized it couldn't be real. I mean, where is suicide a crime?

That's gripping.

In the United States.

Preettttttty sure.

[peachy]

Re: I can't write

its illegal in a few states in the us, but hardly ever enforced iirc

[Translucid]

Re: I can't write

this is more interesting than stuff by people who say they can write.
so pretty good.

[peachy]

Re: I can't write

toaster with the moods that you said i should include, im a little lost on where to put them, and even how and what. could you be a little more specific, so i can grasp the concept a little better. i dont really plan on revising this because its like 4 years old and ive read so many other pieces that cover the same material and better, but im starting to get back into writing and itd be neat if i could improve on the areas that im being weak etc.


this is what i read that made me think this was a piece of **** and stop writing for a while:

You delude yourself into thinking more education will somehow help. Spending thousands of dollars you don't have, taking out loans to study more and more, you finally get your Masters, or maybe even a Doctorate.

Then, when it's all over, you tackle the real world! Unfortunately, the strain of menial job after menial job builds up. The banality of copy editing technical manuals for a furniture wholesaler starts to get to you. There has to be more to life than this! The poster of Ernest Hemmingway leers down at your from your bedroom wall. Somewhere, off in the distance, you hear the sounds of immigrants making impassioned love.

The days are starting to run together. Coffee. Computer. Boss. Rod A into Slot C. The sky isn't the limit, and neither is the glass ceiling. Instead, there is only a cement slab, slowly decending. Todd, your old college roommate, calls one day. He's getting married, and wants you to be there! "Really, the Hamptons?", you ask. You might have to work that day. The manuals are getting backed up. You've spent too much time playing snood. You also resent him. Investment banker, what a yuppie.

Another night home alone. There's nothing on TV. God, **** Jay Leno and that smug smile.

The Hemmingway poster is leering again. Judging you. What did he have that I don't? That beard? I could grow a beard. He drank like a fish. Maybe that helped.

You head down to the liquor store and pick up a bottle of Jameson's whiskey. You haven't been dating, you've got the cash to spare.

Two hours later. The solitary curor still blinks at you. No words. GOD IS JAY LENO ON AGAIN?

Now you're crying. You're drunk, and Ernest Hemmingway is off somewhere, being felated by the undying fame you'll never even meet.

You pull down the poster, and tear it to shreads. Your hands aren't fast enough, use your mouth! Snot and tears mix with the grainy black-and-white photo; you rip and tear until you're out of breath. You feel the last gasp of idealism brush your lips and escape, only moments before you pass out.

[Toaster]

Re: I can't write

toaster with the moods that you said i should include, im a little lost on where to put them, and even how and what.

Try throwing in a few extra adjectives whenever necessary to help paint a fuller picture for us. Sight, smell, touch, taste. etc.

Use words that have strong connotations with specific moods. To give you an idea of what I mean, here's a paper I had to write during the Poetry section of my Composition class. Not that great while I read it now, but you get the idea.

Taking You Somewhere You Wish You Hadn’t Seen


Theodore Roethke’s “Root Cellar” is a poem that describes a place most undesirable to the senses and repulses the reader with the mood of unpleasantness and decay created.

In the first line “dank as a ditch” is the description of the cellar that nothing would sleep in (1). The word “dank” defined in the 2006 Random House Unabridged Dictionary is “unpleasantly moist and humid”. Even the dictionary defines the word as unpleasant. The “shoots dangled and drooped” (3), these words create a vivid sense of visual imagery that makes it feel like they are right there. Dangling and drooping, not simply “hanging” but rather “lolling obscenely” (4) as if deliberately trying to get in the way. The word “mildewed” in line four creates an olfactory and tactile sense of imagery as mildew has a distinct unpleasant smell and with the smell the associated dampness of the environment that mildew is found in. The imagery in this poem creates a mood of abandonment, decay, and unpleasantness.

In the fifth line of Roethke’s poem “Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes” (5) a sense of repulsion and fear begin to set in. The roots are “long yellow evil necks”. Know of the color and know of the shape, but to know that they are “evil” like “tropical snakes” instills a sense of fear and yet again, repulsion. The next few lines set up what the following line describes as a “congress of stinks!” (6).

Roots ripe as old bait,
Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,
Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks. (7-9)

The word congress is used very cleverly when describing the stink. Congress is most commonly detonated with the American Government, but what a congress essentially represents is an assembly, or coming together. In this context, the congress is not a political body but rather the convergence of all the different stinks that the cellar holds. The word choices in lines 7-9 are deliberate in that they create an unmistakable, unpleasant sense of olfactory images. The words “old bait”, “leaf-mold”, “manure”, and “lime” bring the smells to life, and create a sense of repulsion. “Ripe”, “pulpy” and “silo-rich” only heighten those smell making the reader know that these are all pungent, rich, and rotting smells.

“Nothing would give up life: / Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath” (10-11). The last line heightens the sense of mood created in this poem. That everything is rotting and decaying, the place smells awful and is unpleasant to the senses and yet it goes on living. The poem creates the illusion that the cellar itself is actually an entity, something that is living and breathing. It’s abandoned, yet there are signs of life in it everywhere no matter how unpleasant or disgusting.

[Smurvis]

Re: I can't write

Nice!

[lil_das]

Re: I can't write

I liked it. It kept me reading until the end. Damn good job.