Skip to main content

Response to a Commenter

The point is that you can never ever run out of things to write about. Just let your hand go, and it will write something. If you put no blocker on it, no filter, and you have no criteria, and just write whatever is flying through your brain down on a piece of paper, or a wall, or a table, or whatever it is you’re writing on, you can’t possibly run out of things to write because your brain is always firing, there’s always something shooting through it, every fleeting moment from its formation until your death — your brain-death, that is. If your heart is beating but your brain is blank, you aren’t really alive, because you can’t write anymore. At that point, you have truly run out of ideas.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Boardroom

As is often said, “The Children may grow old and die, but the Names stay the same.” A more accurate truism has never existed in popular discourse, and I proclaim that with the utmost pride. It was My first day on the Board, but I knew I needn’t be nervous. My many Grandfathers’ years of Accumulation had been in the service of My possession of this seat, and, My father perished, here I was at last. I was a Boardmember. I was now an Issuer of Decisions, not just a Beneficiary. Nor, of course, a helpless receiver of consequences. But need that even be said? I smiled softly to Myself as I burst through the Boardroom doors with a sudden and necessary confidence about Me. The other Boardmembers had already arrived. They sat on Their elevated seats, comfortably above the podium that marked the position of the coming Proctor. From the moment I entered They stared down at me. Their gazes were soft and unthreatening, for I was, of course, One of Them. Still, They were curious about thi...
Post a Comment
Read more

A Pen

If someone could create a pen that would never run out, I think I could entertain myself forever. When I run out of paper, I can write on walls and floors and ceilings. I can draw on them, too. Once I run out of those, I will start writing on the ground and the rocks and such. And before I run out of those, I will die. But the pen will not run out.
2 comments
Read more

Hidalgo and Theresa

Hidalgo licked the envelope lid, sealing it shut. He liked using envelopes; he still liked sending and receiving paper mail. He imagined the letter being picked up by a post carrier first thing in the morning as he strolled down the street to the post office. Hidalgo wondered how long it would be before he heard anything back. He wondered if he’d hear anything back at all. He betted, though, that he would. *** On Saturday, Theresa Hawkins decided to open the preceding week’s mail, which had been piling up on the countertop next to her bowl of pens. A few items in, she found herself grasping a manila business envelope from a company called Lipno Insurance. She had no dealings with this Lipno Insurance, so she threw the letter aside into her recycling bin, thinking it to be an advertisement or some such nonsense. Several weeks later, Theresa received a telephone call on her private cell. “Hello, is this Ms. Hawkins?” said a vaguely bored voice on the other end of the line. T...
Post a Comment
Read more