I had something else for this week, but it wasn't good enough for me. I scrapped it all, and wrote that drunk little blurb contained in this week's fire. It was probably for the best. The fires are lit and continue to burn, whether I want them to or not. This week's tale is inspired by that.
“What do I fucking write this week?” He asked.
“Whatever the fuck you want” He replied.
“Cool.” He jumped on his laptop and began pressing keys, each one making more words than the last.
“It should be okay, they only like the main picture anyway.”
“But this was never for them, it was for me, to challenge and grow myself, not their curiosity and their entertainment.”
“Yet they are the only reason you still do this. God knows you don’t have the self-discipline to do it on your own.”
“I could, if I wanted.”
“Still, you only write when you think there is an audience to reach. Maybe you should just write to yourself.”
“I did that, a few days back. Remember?”
A writer should always write under the influence of some sort of materia otherwise he just isnte trying har enouhgh. When he first tries, he gets his eyes on the screen, he targets in and he cant write worth ashit. He tries to make some humorous observations about politics or life or the fact that he sucks, but they all flall flar. Maybew he should try again and make more words bounce off the keyboards in a less dramatic fashoin. It is a arelall good thaing that he stopped drinkning tbwecause ptheriwise this would be a complet emess and no on e would ever eraread as ruenqwfjasingle fucling thisng form his fingeresedsrajtnrewpotjsndfklm.s
“Yeah, that was just so amazing. Blown away. Bravo.”
“Like you said, they’re for me.”
“Yeah, but would you read shit like that? Like this?”
“So where’s the good stuff? The Dunmans, Potans, shit even a Monkey and Man story would be better than anything you’ve put out in the past few months.”
“Honestly, I write and then I don’t, always been that way. These fires were lit to keep that burning, to keep me writing, even when I don’t feel like it.”
“A good thing, noble, I suppose. But you need more passion than that. You need a bigger flame than a fireplace.”
“An inferno always starts small.”
“Yes, but it does get bigger.”
“That’s what he said.”
“Enough, this isn’t one of your funny, haha, bullshits that you shit onto the screen. You need to be more invested, more into your art.”
“No, I don’t”
“What was that?”
“I said that I don’t and that I can do this however the fuck I want.”
“Good. I think you really are starting to get it.”
“And I think that you’ve got it, too. I know you push me, expect me to be more, to do more. That is not an easy thing to do, to give someone that much credit. It’s even harder to accept when they fail your expectations.”
“You will always be more than what you think are.”
“I won’t know unless I continue. Consider this that: a continuation. There are some really fucking cool stories I got going, but they have to be perfect before the end.”
“The 52nd fire. The end to a mask”
“Ah, that end. Good luck with that.”
“I don’t need luck, just will and endurance, streaming across to that flame. The one flame to either explode the fire or smother it out.”
“Well, until then, keep at it but, most important, keep at it good.”
“I will. Thanks for pushing me.”
“You got it. You’re all you got.”
“I know. And I wouldn’t want it any more or less.”
So ended his brief tirade within his head, a talking to by both sides: One which seeks to play and pretend, the other looking to push and provide encouragement, both positive and negative, to keep him doing what he loves, even when he thinks he can’t.