Creative Writing, OldVenue

The Dream of Writing

The first word came out on a limb, its meaning perforating the paper

like a hiss, the letters written in a drunken haze. The first word

was not like the first stroke of a painter, who already has a vision

of reality in their mind like a biologist buttoning on their coat to begin

the hard work of handling a culture within a petri dish, but a quivering


in uncertainty that began after midnight with the sip of chamomile from a


so red it would make those passionate burn with envy; the strained

tea string tensed vertically as he pulled it out by the tag and dipped it back



Whenever he was drunk, he’d recall his fear of reciting stories

in public, as if in a trance: the stage, the bright light, his voice

of sonorous somnolence. He sipped, again. Every word had a staccato

resonance, humming like a dull knife, louder than the pitying applause

that came after.


Outside, the sun seeped into the sullying dark and the greenery,

creating a history out of yesterdays and a possibility of new tragedies,

with its throaty shout, and it is impossible to keep up. He arranged the

narratives of his life and squinted at each of them, until his friends, or

his lovers, or his places disappeared and were replaced by a helix of words

twisted into stuttering on the paper: life, fauna, lake, oration, death, change.

He recreates his reality through throughlines, describing the beginning

like the end within the confidence of his solitude. It is impossible

to constantly recreate life by following the cycle of day and night; it is also impossible to assign permanence and rigidity to the first word; in every narration you or the place becomes a new being. He pauses and reads what he has written, shredding details almost at the pace he forgets dreams after waking up. In his mind, he bellows amidst the evening buzz that hollows out the bones of his identity; the moon shines as mad as a boil on the body, emanating

from the sky, which shrivels like a corpse to reveal its clouds.


Any writer who is confident is a liar.


The mornings in Norwich do not have the same brutal heat as his home,

so, with the cold becoming a fresh layer of skin, he puts on his leather jacket;

the smell of creation of his palms smudged with ink and sweat wakes

something in him the way a good literary process is supposed to but rarely

does. He thinks about his future, but a mosaic of instances that already

happened emerges, blooming then rotting in his forgetfulness, his mind

wandering; the future invokes the smell of latent academia: old books,

leather, then panic. His future has become one with the imagined reality

of another life;


it pats him on the shoulder, ruffles his hair like a father and puts his pen

into his hand again whenever he’d think of giving up. It makes him laugh

and dance within the mess of his room:

the juxtaposition of themes, a plot that birthed itself, anchored by the first

word of creation, whose meaning becomes constantly corrupted and



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