the sound of one voice talking
I felt so remarkably productive earlier today. Got a lot done, too, until I decided to take a break; everything just fell apart from there.
I've spent the evening feeling irritated with my story. I've come to a point where I've been working on this same small thing for so long that everything about it just seems wrong
, not the least of which is its unfinished condition. Wrote some more. Decided that what I'd written sucked only incrementally less than the terrible stuff I'd had there before. Decided that I'd let it stand anyway.
, I keep telling myself, my writing. Be specific. Be concise.
the story replies, I will be lumpy, and slow, and not hang together properly.
Why are you so passive?
I ask the story in despair. The story shrugs.
What about you?
I shout at Jackson. Why are you so freaking passive? Why can't I let you rage? Why do I have to force you to care, why do I have to shove your face in it? Why don't you want to save the world?
Jackson looks at me, and his expression is empty. His breath steams out in slow clouds, swirling and fading to nothing. I notice a bit of blood on the side of his right nostril. He looks at me, and looks at me, and then turns away.