Randy's Chance

With all the trademarks of a complete and total creative void, Randy decided that he would have to simply start typing if he was going to get anything done by morning. This was day three of his three-day plan to have a completed (and hopefully decent) short story to present to his group that was to convene at the Ipswitch quad in less than twelve hours. He had nothing to show at this point, and if he resigned to his weariness with a quick nap, he was sure he would have nothing to offer tomorrow, solidifying his existence as a man of no words. With this, he positioned himself as though he imagined a professional writer might sit, and started pounding the keys with as much grace as if he were a secretarial extra in the background of a bad movie. The worst that could come out the other end would be unintelligible gibberish, he convinced himself. What's a little well-deserved embarrassment compared to revealing to a group of real writers that he could not summon the nerve to construct a single word, let alone a short story of any value? He then imagined standing in front of his group the next day trying to pronounce a slurry of made-up words and clusters of punctuation marks, peppered with random numbers throughout. But what if that wasn't right, he thought? What is gibberish, after all? Nonsensical sounds, tones, shapes, letters, and thoughts, capable of converging into themselves, ever threatening to gel into something solid enough to be badly misunderstood by somebody, someday. And what are the odds that if this sloppy experiment somehow attracted some sorry soul into believing that there was anything more to it than the character sludge that it was, they could be anything but completely insane? This could get dangerous, he thought. What if something very bad resulted from his non-story? What if it was revealed that he foresaw (even vaguely) the terrible thing that would come from his procrastination-induced haste? What if it was revealed to the world that this very bad thing was an avoidable tragedy, triggered by his own inky mess disaster? Things could get actionable, he thought. Could writing without direction or structure actually attract the attention of someone who was already desperately looking for something to connect with, despite its content (or lack thereof)? It seemed all too probable. Randy's thoughts then turned to an article he read some months back that claimed that schizophrenia could be triggered in some, catalyzed by little more than sustained eye-contact with a common housecat. If there was any truth to the article, it's possible, he thought, somebody could get hurt. Killed, even. The thought of invoking accidental violence against himself or anybody else had his hands seize up and rest themselves on either side of his computer. 

"What the hell am I doing?", he said aloud.

All he could hear was his father's voice reminding him that words are not toys, and were never intended to be tossed around by numbskulls, looking for a quick lay by the first girl that might be impressed by a fool who calls himself a writer.

His mind swirled with all the stupid stories, myths and cryptic advice calling down to him from the ether of past masters and their well-earned palatial place in time in literary Vallhala. He once read of a writer who typed a single letter nineteen-thousand times, day after day, just to spend his days writing. This "write everyday", "write when uninspired", "write a single letter over and over" sludge was starting to eat at the modicum of belief that he would have a single, coherent sentence to share with his group in the far too near future. Why did he join this group in the first place? Was his dad right? Was he trying to get laid? He quickly ruled out this motive when he remembered that there were no women in his group at all, and if he was gay, it was news to him. No, but there had to be a reason. There had to be a reason, but he couldn't think of one. The list of things he could not figure out was lengthening with every thought, and with this, he picked his hands up off his desk and held them hovering above the backlit keyboard as if it were a Ouija, seeking things unknowable, talents unattainable. But this is not how it would go. Writer's block would not be where his story ended. The fact he even had writer's block had to mean something, and perhaps that something was so obvious that he felt like a fool for not having seen it earlier.

Again, his hands went wild as he set them loose upon his keyed pallet of the most powerful set of symbols in the known universe. Before long, Randy had a sentence. All by itself, it wasn't much to behold, but the knowing that more would follow sent a charge through his body that felt electric. His second sentence took seventeen minutes to complete, which was of some consequence considering he deleted it immediately. It was not in the same league as the first, and if he knew one thing for sure, it was that a great opening sentence can not be followed by a lesser one if it has a fighting chance of stirring the reader into turning that first page. The first sentence had to be perfect and could be followed only by a superior successor. It was a simple equation, but one in which he could not find a flaw. Start with something great and expand upon it with something excellent and follow that excellence to the end. Was this brand-new knowledge, summoned by an ordinary man in a desperate situation, or had he stumbled onto the most closely guarded writer's secret since The Epic Of Gilgamesh? Randy was only one sentence in, but there was not a trace of doubt in his heart that he had crashed headlong onto the path that leads to the place where the nobody sheds his skin and leaves his needs behind. He always knew it was there, attained by few.

From that moment on, Randy's fingers never stopped moving, although the random nonsense that had been his earlier driving force had seemingly seamlessly morphed into sharp intention and effortless perfection. One beautiful bed of fertile words, stacked upon the other, until there was no room nor need for more. Randy had finished his story and it was flawless. Any given day of Randy's life prior to this moment would have triggered a stifling obsession over how much time he had left for polishing. For the first time in his life, he decided that these were little things, and not worth his precious time or trouble. Things would work out as they would. Words were now his allies and not his executioner, as he had never believed they might one day be. He told himself that he would treat words like toys when he pleased, just as he would use them as a sword when a sword was in order. Randy's journey was over, and not only was he thrilled to be alive to feel it, he felt the warmth and glow of purpose for the first time in his life.

From that night forward, Randy would never again hear his father's voice or the well-intentioned and discouraging words it accompanied. They would be forever replaced by the perfect silence that came and went; all he ever wanted.