Last Night Left Without Saying Goodbye

Last night I wrote a story and I thought it was great and I went to sleep feeling good about myself and I even had some good dreams. But daylight arrived and with it came the laughter of crows and the irritating flight paths of fruit flies drowning themselves in dregs of wine and beside me on the bed was my story, a maggoty stinking corpse.

The words had blackened and the paragraphs were mottled but I could still read the opening bit about the whetstone of amphetamines and alcohol lubricating as it sharpens. My left eye twitched at a string of stock phrases that led to the toilet of creativity like a trail of vomit: mud-caked tires; sinister clowns; the black dog of depression.

Idiot, I said to myself. Trotting out the cancerous mules of cliché and idiom does not a writer make. I mean, do you really think we need another drinking and drugging personal propaganda piece that strikes a pose somewhere between Breaking Bad and Panic in Needle Park?

Go get yourself a cup of coffee and drink it as you delete the decaying contents of your documents folder. If there is anything left then you are probably a sentimental type. If so, you’re fucked. Stop pretending. Close your laptop right now and don’t open it back up until you are ruthless enough and brave enough and crazy enough for blood

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3 thoughts on “Last Night Left Without Saying Goodbye

  1. This is fucking too funny. Self-doubt, deconstruction, and then an overwhelming wave of authentic self-absorption: a good way to write. Of course, being funny helps. Are we all like this? No. I think there are writers who have total confidence. I can’t read them. Their words are like small bits of plastic, that white stuff that is destroying the world. This post reminds me of the comic who fell to the floor and tried to get inside a crack in the cement: unforgettable.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I was rereading this today and it struck me that you and I went through the same process. It is difficult to be trapped inside your mind with a mistake. Then I looked at a major league fuck-up, the one that Truman Capote made with Answered Prayers. It killed him along with two or three others. They all committed suicide with guns, booze, or drugs; dead from common words that revealed a secret of the heart. Truth vs honesty and I think all writers who are any good search for truth, but end up only being honest. Normally, that is good enough. I used to say I didn’t believe in the truth of something that was written, but now I have changed my mind. The truth of it is not with the writing, it is with the reading and that was a revelation for me. All of those people I write about who didn’t make it…all the women I fucked, they are real and if somebody who was actually there read my words, they might be hurt. The only good thing I can say is most of them are scattered to the world and the odds of them reading my shit are slim. This was not the case with the girl who sat with me when the commander offered to kill anyone I wanted. She read it and it was too true and I fucked up. Just like you fucked up by not being honest enough, forget the truth of the cigar. That’s the way I see it anyway. Fuck it pal. Downward. The view is so much more personal there.

    Liked by 2 people

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