“I don’t believe it was suicide,” she said. He agreed, then, with that knowing smile on his face, he pushed her off the cliff.
For his writing instruments, Marcus uses fountain pens made from black ivory and blessed by a witch doctor in New Guinea. He lances the blood from his very veins to provide these pens with the only kind of ink that appeases their hunger, lest something unfortunate happens to him.
I’m sorry your last girlfriend didn’t like it when you spoke to her in metaphors, but she obviously didn’t know what you were worth. Just as a treasure chest is never left in plain sight, one must dig a little deeper to find the treasure within your words.
I had long grown accustomed to the light that shone off her face like mystic white porcelain when the darkness of night surrounded us that was not from the glow of candlelight but was rather produced by the screen of the laptop she balanced on top of her thighs.
As the steady tap-tap-tap of the keyboard under her pretty-but-agile little fingers lulled me nearly to sleep, I took in a deep, fulfilling breath and sighed with the pleasure of knowing that my beloved wasn’t just any woman – she was a writer.
I wonder if I’ll publish a book.
Of my own, I mean.
A major part of writing is convincing your audience that you know what you’re talking about, even when you don’t have a clue.
The hard part is getting them to read it in the first place.
I understand you are jealous of the position I’ve reached.
It’s not my fault I worked hard for two years and now I don’t have to work again!
Eventually there were so few barriers to writing that I really had no choice.
I spent weeks building new barriers.
Talent is a poison.
Other people think it is great to make up all those stories but they don’t have to deal with the voices in the night.
I used to be an addict.
Seven-thousand words when I hit bottom.
How is that novel going?
It is an ordinary so far.
I found some old sentences.
Did I create them?
Yesterday I finished the first draft of a children’s book.
Today I have forgotten I wrote it at all.
Me and me and the other me had a big fight about a story yesterday.
It’s been really awkward silence since then, mind-wise.
How stupid to get addicted to writing.
I’ll never be free.
I found the story I wrote for you.
Should I post “The Littlest Geneticist” or not?
The future me came back and read my stories.
Then he just laughed and laughed and laughed.
The frog is green.
That took eight years to write.
“I don’t get why micro-stories always have to shock or amuse or have a twist,” she said. “Me neither,” he said, putting the knife back in its sheath.
Saying you are a writer and being a writer is not the same thing.
One involves a lot of talk, the other involves a lot of bullshit.