The Writer


The heat was not stifling. No, the heat was stale and the grammar nazi, the anal-retentive editor, the wager of wars against cliché, walked out of the dining room, sat on his chair at his table, took a pen, and began to write. He struck out words, whole passages even while he was writing. He began his war against the enemies of his craft.

From his sacred world of the original, he banished the sky-blue skies and the eyes that resembled the stars. He left untouched the stale heat and the purple lace veins. He blessed, in his own neglecting way, the living. He disposed of the dead. The blank page demanded the living. Words must breathe. Thus, the weaver of words wrote, by crossing out. He created, by destroying.

He built a castle of ochre stone with a moat around it filled with blood-red honey. He planted a tree with blue leaves and vivid magenta bark. The deceiving mistresses who rummaged in handbags, had bee-stung lips framed by arrogant cheekbones and inset determined eyes, died. The black traitors would not stick, not to his pages. They rolled off like water on Colocasia leaves, off the 2-dimensional world of the written, dripping down the edge.

They fell into another world, where there was more than the white and black of the page. They discovered that there were more of them. Large, abandoned masses of clichés and dead phrase. Siblings by nature. Torn scraps of paper, prematurely aborted sentences. Deformed, unwanted, unnecessary fetuses. The unborn world of the unwritten story.