Saturday, September 14th (repost)

It is not so easy to write a thousand words a day, she thinks. But she dutifully pulls her computer out and types, because it was Ray Bradbury’s advice and no, it wasn’t directed towards her specifically but it was in a textbook she was given and it was intended for young, aspiring writers, and she was nothing if not a young, aspiring writer.

So here she is, writing these very words, with sweat dripping down her back and the pool so close, sparkling blue and empty on account of some rambunctious child defecating in the bobbing waters. Less than a hundred words in and she’s managed to talk about shit, literally.

She wonders what Bradbury had in mind with his advice. She wonders if he believes it. She is inclined to believe that he does, because of his diction, because of his playful exposure of his own troubles and hardships and trails as a young, aspiring writer. He seems genuine, she thinks, and she wonders as to the state of his ninety year old mind now. He lives close to her, a couple cities away. Maybe she should write to him. Maybe she would. But what would she say—what could she say that would impress upon this supremely creative mind, so furrowed and twisted with neurons sparking brilliance from tower to tower, eyes sharp behind his glasses; what did she have that was worth showing him?

Maybe it was less than that. Maybe it was that she was loathe to taint her image of this phenomenon that had crept into her heart and mind and made her want this life—this man who bewitched her with words so subtly that she didn’t know until she was changed, until her mouth watered idly with a desire she didn’t know how to explain, until one day she woke up and it hit her like a ton of bricks that all she wanted to do, all she will ever want to do—more than finding love, more than happiness, more than money and more than contentment—she wanted to write, and she wanted to be appreciated, and she wanted to be capable.

Three hundred and sixty words in, and she’s stuck. But it’s probably always like this in the beginning, she thinks. Everyone has trouble starting intentionally. It was one thing to be struck with inspiration like a stitch in her side, like an opportunity she’d be completely mental to pass up, like a spray of water to the face. She just jumped aboard that train, wrapped her sweaty fingers around the smooth metal pole and pulled herself aboard, heedlessly. It wasn’t so much that she needed to find what she was looking for, it was that she needed to experience the journey there. She needed to figure out what life was along the way, even if the end result had nothing to do with the meaning of life. The two are independent of one another, she thinks—the journey is different than the outcome.

It’s not true that the end justifies the means, she thinks, because it was never about the end, at least not for her. You don’t live life with the intent of dying, not at first, not as a rule.

Five hundred and fifty words in right now, at that moment, and now she thinks that there’s too much to write about that’s already been done, and the only reason why she’d write it is to experience writing it. But it’s not about writing it, that part—it’d be about the end result. She looks back at what she’s written and it doesn’t make sense. She contradicts herself, and she seeks to explain.

It is always about the journey, then. Writing is about the journey, but the end result is a journey too. For both the writer and the reader, the end result is a journey.

She thinks of her sister suddenly, and is glad that she only has one of them. The women in the cabana next to her postulate on weddings and brides and maids of honor, and it isn’t hard to figure out who will be her maid of honor. It is strange, to think of this want of hers. She does want to get married, no doubt—but there would be more, there would be more to herself than who she married and the style of her dress.

Seven hundred words in and she feels like there’s nothing left to say. Everything’s weighing down on her so heavily in this moment, though not the same moment that she left off—days and thoughts and life-spans later here she is, finishing her sentence, literally. She wonders if that’s considered cheating. She wonders what Ray does with his days. She wonders what she would be capable of if she ever started taking her own advice.

She feels too short-tempered these days, and she doesn’t like it. She’s so tired from school and her classes and her puppy, the one she never asked for, that when she gets home and tries to squeeze time in for the important people in her life she ends up snappish and crude. It’s sickening. And she remembers so much, and so often, about being in love. She is cruel to herself, with her entirely unapologetic remembrances. Every carefully packed away memory has come tumbling out and compiled like a film reel designed to cut away the callus on her heart, and here it comes again; the pain like bamboo whipping through the air.

She’s almost there, and she can feel it. She was once in love, but that was a long time ago. And it is also a story for another day. She wonders if some day she’ll get to explain to someone else exactly what her first love meant to her. She wonders if they will care. Would it be worth it, would it matter? Would they understand? Would they promise to be better, too good to be true?