The Process of Writing

The writing process is a sick tease. Our noteworthy thoughts are only momentarily fresh... they begin to lose their taste, their flavor, within the following milliseconds. Really, writing is a delayed attempt to document these fleeting thoughts that we characterize as worthy. Even if...let’s say you are a dedicated writer in that you’re the type to drop and go, the process of writing is more or less a struggle. 


                                                                     
For example...


Your brain buzzes and sends ringing-dinging signals to your body calling your fingers to type, so you jump up drop what you're doing and begin your journey towards your writing instruments. For most instruments are more than just their computer, but a certain space where their thoughts are clearest. Well, as clear as thoughts can be after the experience has left. 
                                                                     
                                                                     
Anyways… Your body is directed by your mind’s want to spill thought onto page, thus you begin to sprint. Without thinking you leave your current mess behind, and start making strides to your next destination because it is here where you’ll sort out your internal mess of madness and create.


As you sprint away your teacher looks with astonishment at your classmates...he asks where ____ is going, and whether ____ is okay (writers never are), yet this conversation only occurs internally. The teacher refuses to take time away from class. 

                                                                     
                                                                     
Pencils, an open scratchpad, a slightly ass-warmed chair, and skid marks…this is what Mr. ___ notices in place of one of his favorite students. “Where could have ____ gone?”

Stride after stride your legs begin to elongate. Yes, that’s right they physical stretch like in Michel Gondry’s film Mood Indigo.
                                                                       
                                                                     
At first, you’re slowed down by the oddity of length, until your mind catches up with your limbs for once and acknowledges the sort of allyship that has occurred. Your brain accepts the collection of mass, so you begin to pick up your pace. Two blocks, three blocks, four blocks- you’re covering ground. One block away and your legs return to a socially acceptable size. Once outside the double doors of your cafe writing heaven you wobble through the first set of doors, compose yourself, and order the best fluid as your fuel. 

“I have a double on bar for ___.”


As you sit at your designated table, a drawer slides open from the side. You grab your laptop and your tangled headphones…Your armreaches out passing four to five incoming coffee addicts and one timid tea drinker all the while grabbing your espresso cup. Slowly you reel in your arm resting your fuel onto the coaster you noticed in the side drawer. Orange. You love orange...you love this coaster. You’re ready to write.

You quickly glance up at all the colors swirling above your head- yellow, blue and brown.
 You grab your thoughts, slap them down next to your fuel, and begin re-analyzing them. You look up quickly to ensure you didn’t leave a good thought buzzing around your head. 

You look up and notice all other addicts are plugged in. The timid tea drinker -- Earl Grey -- is staring right at you. You notice that Earl's eyes have expanded. They keep shifting up and down...he looksat his arm, then yours. You don't understand or have the time to try and contemplate his confusion. 
High, low, down, up, click-click...the keyboard is writing. The writer is creating. Yellow, blue, and brown have changed to having atranslucent nature. Your thoughts are not lost, but rather preserved. 

The side drawer closes. You rustle to open it and peer down to see a yellow, blue and brown book. That is how a novel is produced. 

I walk away leaving an empty espresso cup, and a barren coffee table. As I leave the shop, I stop to peer into the window and notice a missing Earl Grey,  yet a steaming hot tea left on the table. Where did ____ go? 

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