They Experience Something

“Writing is a spiritual experience,” the old writer with a big ugly mustache said. 

Oh brother.

“It is a journey inwards to the unknown self.”

Schmuck. 

“The sacred tradition of stories keeps us alive. It teaches us and gives us hope.”

What should I get for lunch? . . . I can't do pizza again. Hmmm . . . This is the problem with free will, you actually have to make complicated choices you might regret later. 

“Words have real power. Everything is energy. And creativity lives in everything. We are only as big as our imagination, and our imagination can be limitless.”

Aw man, these pants have a hole in the crotch. 

“We learn from art what we can't see in reality and we learn from reality what we see in art. It's a relationship.”

College is lame. My back hurts. This seat sucks.  I'm tired and I have so much homework. I fear my fire might die before I graduate. I think I'll call in sick to work tonight and take a nap.

“The great writers left a piece of their soul in their work.”

I miss her. 

“There's a natural poetry to life. One simply has to live to experience it.”

There's a natural comedy to life, too. And there's irony so sharp it'll cut ya. 

“Action, combined with imagination, mixed with hard work and belief, and almost anyone can write a good book. Those are the ingredients to real magic.”

I wonder how old this building is? That tree outside is probably older than it. Shit, that tree outside is probably older than all of us. I wonder what it's heard? I wonder what it's seen?

“It's not enough to write a good story, though. One must live a good story as well.”

They might not have eyes and ears like us but they experience something . . . 

“The central nervous system is more than just a complex electrical system keeping us alive. It remembers. It stores information. And when we repress our emotions, we change the chemicals in our brain. Writing is therapy. Art is life. Feeling our feelings and expressing them to those we love is vital. Our bodies and brains weren’t built to do life alone? How could it when we’ve been social creatures since our existence?”

I’d rather go listen to that old Birch than this old stuffy bitch. 

“Everyone has a story to tell. Everyone has a song to sing. Or everyone has a painting to paint. Will you sing your song? Or will you let it welt inside of you?”

I miss her. I messed up, though. And now I am my own home again . . . And there's dishes in this sink. The laundry is dirty. Rents due. I have a mole in my lawn. And all the ceiling fans are stuck running laps. It’s cold here.

“Take it seriously. Get the story out and then polish it until it shines. It will be a grind full of edits and rewrites, but it'll be worth it.”

At least I have blackout curtains in here. Real freedom in life is the right to block out the sun. I bet-

“Chet! What did I just say? Repeat it back to me.”

Shit! Something stuffy and pretentious, I'm sure. “All great writers are addicts and the mediocre ones end up lecturing in chilly lecture halls to day-dreaming hungry students that would rather be sleeping or talking to the trees? But, it’s better to be a shitty artist than not an artist at all?”

. . .

Oops. 

“Stay after class, Mr. Worthington.”

Welp . . . Shit. 

CH 10/24/26