“You’re story isn’t a story,” we said, “and
that’s being nice.”
The writer nodded.
“You see, it doesn’t have a beginning, middle, or end.”
“There’s no conflict.”
“You change
your point of view.”
“Feels like a synopsis. A shallow one at that.”
“Certain things can’t be done
in a story,” we admonished.
His eyes were big and brown and soft. We notice eyes.
“Try betrayal,” we suggested. “Or break a window.
Burn a book. This
is life we’re talking about here.”
The writer lowered his head. We know what we’re doing.
“Now wait,” we said, in just the nick of time. “There
may be hope.
For a handsome fee we can help you discover your style, your oeuvre,
your true voice. We take checks.”
To our chagrin the writer pulled out his pen and wrote a story on
his
check without thinking.
We knew it wasn’t a real story. Even without reading it. We
know
what it takes to write a story, and said as much.
The writer cocked his head, bemused.
Started another story on a deposit slip.
There was no hope for this one, we agreed with a group shrug.
We’re in the business of writing. We know no hope.
202 words
© 2005 Guy Biederman
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