About six months ago I started work on a short story in the horror movie vein. I did what any budding writer should do and told absolutely everyone about my idea. This was before I had put anything on paper. A friend at work heard me describe one scene in such detail that it took me a week of cigarette breaks to describe it; the mood, the light, the sounds, sounds of footsteps nearing closer. I was obviously very excited by my new project. I rang my Mum and told her I had publisher interest. When she asked me to read her some of my story, I told her I didn’t want to “Jinx” it. I met my friends in the pub and I explained that I had already written ten pages, when actually I’d spent the last week in my room, playing computer games.
Meanwhile, my girlfriend told me she was pregnant.
I lay awake at night, waiting for sleep, whilst the first scene of my story played on my ceiling like a roll of film. I had excellent ideas, like those from a dream that you have to write as soon as you wake; but instead of writing my ideas down, because I was too lazy to get out of bed, I came up with a memorable rhyme instead. I repeated this over and over and over while I drifted off to sleep. This would surely help me remember my brilliant verse.
In the morning I had forgotten to set the alarm. I had forgotten all my ideas.
Late to work for the sixth time this month, my Supervisor called me to his office and we had a little chat. Insert speech marks where applicable. At lunch I was quiet and did not join in with my colleagues conversation. Instead I warmed my bruised ego with a new rhyme. My rhymes contained elaborate language, they contained juxtaposition. I was impressed with myself. The three things I had remembered from school were: how to use juxtaposition, how to talk to girls, and when not to speak. Most would think this a waste of an education, but when does someone use GCSE biology, math or music in real life? Not real people. Juxtaposition was for real people, it was all the relationships I'd ever had, it was everything you could ever think of, placed side by side.
Instead of paying the rent I bought various books on creative writing. I was going to write myself a new way of doing things.
After explaining to my boss that I needed some time off to spend with my girlfriend and our new, incoming responsibility, I began the story. After the first paragraph I looked to my watch and saw that two hours had passed. Less than one hundred words and I was already bored. After masturbating a couple of times I phoned my girlfriend who was as monosyllabic as usual. Thirty seconds talking about baby clothes had reduced any new ideas I had to air bubbles in my head. I masturbated again. Then I suddenly had a vicious urge to clean the flat. I was perfecting the art of procrastination.
I failed to notice that my girlfriend wasn't home yet, I didn't notice until I ran out of milk. This was six cups of tea too late.
When the Landlord asked me for the last three months rent, I made-up unbelievable excuses then packed my things, and I left during the night. He had my girlfriend's contact details anyway, not mine. I caught the bus to my mothers’ and told her I’d been given a few days extra holiday. Apart from some new wrinkles, she seemed well and happy to see me. I told her my story was going to be in some hip fashion magazine next month. She could barely hide the fact she knew I was lying, but she gave me her toasty mother's smile. After she’d gone to bed, I sat in the garden, drinking gin and tonic and I looked up at the night sky. This was nice. This was easy. It was then that I gave up on my short story, it wasn't very scary afterall, and that isn't very good for a horror story. Looking back on it, it wasn't really very much of anything at all.
I decided to do something autobiographical, this made ideas easier, I had tons of ideas floating around in everything I did. I toasted my new venture with the moon, clinking it's hard white curve, over and over. It was nice to be starting again.
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