Okay, I had nothing to do, so I started writing a stream of consciousness. I had no idea what I was writing about or where it was going but it seems to have developed into a fictional diary type affair. I'm not really sure where I would go with it, or what the point is, or even if I will carry on writing. If anyone has any suggestions about directions to follow (or just want to tell me it's shit and to give up) I would really appreciate it. It's only a first draft so might not make any sense, so please be patient. In fact, I'm not even sure it's comedy. It's certainly not very funny.
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December 15th 11:46: An empty room shouldn't be this warm; it's getting hard to stay awake. My eyelids are heavy and my finger ache. Typing has become a chore. It is hard to remain awake when there is no one there to distract you. This is how I spend my days; filling time. Scrawling away at a keyboard until my hands are numb from qwerterial repetition. The life of a writer is not an exciting one, but it not nearly as dull as the life of an aspiring writer. The only breaks in my mundane schedule are the occasion red rimmed letters or threatening phone calls from one of my many creditors. I'm now failing to convince myself that they will go away if I ignore them long enough. That trick only really works for relationships.
I have been staring at this same paragraph for around an hour now. I have used the word 'stuff' three times in the same elongated sentence. I delete it and rewrite it word for word, hoping that it will make more sense the seventh or eighth time. It doesn't.
I take a sip of coffee. It's not even good coffee. The Clipper ran out a couple of days ago, and I am too lazy to find a supermarket to sell me more. So I have been relegated to own brand industrial grade mud water. Not sure why I'm drinking it, I hate it so much. The hatred is a nice distraction though, it spurs me to raid the kitchen and dredge through the cabinets in favour of an alternative. The writing can wait. Starting with the hot drinks cupboard is the sensible choice. But I'm feeling avant-garde, so I will start with the least likely place and work my way toward the logical starting point. Yes, that seems like a brilliant plan. The Pan-Asian cupboard is stickier than it ought to be. There is something sweet and unpleasant on my hand now, and I'm not delighted about it. Certainly not bothered enough to clean it off though. Oh. Okay. So the search worked. In the back of the cupboard is a jar of coffee. And Clipper to boot. Any temporary excitement though is crushed when I realise it is decaffeinated. Now I must choose between a high caffeine content or a pleasant experience. I decide to punish myself further and stick with the caffeine.
Now that excitement is over, I can continue my job of staring blankly at my computer screen. There was more pan-Asian goo on my hand than I realised, so now my space bar is stickier than I would like. The cursor's insistent blinking is becoming an irritation. I decide that my time would be equally well used if I change the cursor setting to something less infuriating. Only to discover my grandiose intentions outreach my knowledge of Microsoft control settings.
Rewriting the sentence for a ninth time sees me changing one 'stuff' to 'things'. Hardly a huge leap forward in literary evolution, but a step in the right direction, certainly. Upon reflection, 'stuff' worked better. I will keep the repetition and pretend that I am being ironic or something similar. I am secretly subverting Stephenie Meyer's literary monstrosity via the medium of poor vocabulary and syntax. Take that, popular fiction. Although the fact my book contains neither vampires nor vapid emotionless teenagers does make it less obvious. Maybe that's where I am going wrong.
15:20: The thermometer tells me that the room has cooled down at least one degree since last inspection, but I am yet to feel the benefit. Even shedding a layer (clothing, not skin) has had little affect. The cat however seems to like it, stretched out like a broken accordion across the carpet. I'm still not happy with the 'stuff' sentence, despite it's remarkable literary subversion. I might have a tenth attempt. The blinking cursor is daring me. It really is annoying. Why must Bill Gates program it to be so insistently blinking? "Here's another second you're not writing. You are a failure. Give up and work in a call centre." Smug bastard. I'm sure the cursor would love that. It's getting too much exercise blinking away on my screen. It would be delighted if I just closed the document and never opened it again. I'm tempted, but that means the cursor will have won, and he's already terribly self-satisfied. I don't want to give him an excuse. It's time for Countdown now, so my revenge plan will have to wait. I wonder what Rachel is wearing today.
