Creative Writing Class2010: Final assignment (freestyle)
Ajarn Simon Wright
The Writer(s) and the Creation
At this very moment the writer of this very story of mine is thinking hard about me especially how she is going to make me an interesting character and my moments in thislife an innovative plot as she has been destined to do. But you see, what she has been missing, as simple as blinking, she has no ideas I have already exist even before she picks up her pen and opens her blank notebook! Believe me I know what I’m talking about. It’s my life, for god sake!!!
Paul was a writer. He had begun to write even before his blonde mother was willing to push him out of her secret part. Since the age of 4 months old when he began to grow his fingers, he kept tickling his mother’s womb with his index drawing the letter “I”. One day two months later, as he hit the state when each finger successfully separated itself, he managed to suck his right thumb while impatiently scratching a phrase directly to his mother “Let me out now” following by three thick exclamation points. Itched and irritated, she spitted him out to this world through her vital part.
What a cheating choice for this writer to make me a writer then take away my right to write my own life!!!
Twenty two years later, for some unexplainable reasons, Paul became a professional book reviewer. In other word, he had no stories of his own. Ashamed yet ambitious, he abandoned his real name and hid himself behind Paula, his new pseudonym. From now on he decided to devote the new self to his/her first real novel, The Writer.
Twenty two years between the lines. That’s cheating, isn’t it? You don’t know any damn things about my life. You don’t know me at all. How dare you…you liar!!!
It was one ordinary Sunday Morning. He was getting inspirations on his regular bench at his familiar corner of his neighborhood’s park when she appeared in front of him. The girl was blonde. She came with a pen and a notebook in her right hand. His left and right hands started to shake intentionally just to exhibit his nervousness. At first, her acts showed that she had no difficulties handling the guy.
For her it was simple. As simple as blinking,.
“MOTHER OF GOD!” he swore as he saw her face. In no time he identified the face with his mother’s letting his paper cup of hot coffee fallen,splashing the ink-black water over his paper-white pants.
“Are you alright, Paul? I mean… Paula!” said the girl giggling with her eyes fixed to his almost-boiled swollen vital part.
“I’m your most faithful reader. I buy all the books with your name on their backs just to read all the lines you have creatively summed up, I never bother reading the whole objects though.” she clarified herself with the underlined red blushing cheeks. “Paula”
“I’m Paula. My name is Paula. It’s my real name. Can you believe that? I almost cannot!” she double underlined her shyness in the cutest way she could possibly think of: sucking both her thumbs.
Such a creepy convenience, you see! Call it a coincidence. Call it a plot. Peculiarly, I’m getting interested in my own life. Maybe I’ll be quiet for a while just to hear what our writer has to say. I have to admit that I find this writer’s version of my story quite interesting, a bit too psychedelic but still interesting. So I’ll just give her a few more lines.
The everyday morning became eccentric enough for him to notice that there was no one else in this part of the garden except for this Paula and that Paula. In fact, there was nothing else in the garden whatsoever, only the two Paulas. He put his finger in his eye trying to restore the sensible sights.
There was really nothing. There was the bench of course because he was sitting on it. But the bench was so strange. It became pink for no rational explanations. The sky was pink too. The water was pink. The trees were pink. The whole setting was pinkish pink.
“Excuse me, you’ve been quite quiet. Did I scare you?” she pretended to look reluctant when asking
“No,no not you. It’s just . . . the weather!” he reluctantly answered.
“Well, that’s good. The last thing I want is to scare you away. ..Not yet. Look,! can you keep an eye on my book for a while? I have to answer a call from the nature. I’ll be back in no time” she smiled exposing her full set of pink teeth and fled.
The book was there on the bench. The book was pink for sure. As pink as the bench as the sky as the trees. He glanced at it while blinking uncontrollably thinking hard then concluded that in this peculiar pinkish period it wouldn’t be so weird or so wrong reading that inviting privacy.
Curious, he opened the book and began to read the first folded page.
The handwriting was familiar as well as the context.
It was one ordinary Sunday Morning. He was getting inspiration..
Recognizing the story, believing that he had been dreaming, he closed the book and his eyes then took a deep breath.
Okay, that’s quite something. But I don’t see where this writer is going. I mean “what’s the point?” It’s turning into one of those unsophisticated scary movies. Cliché!!! Let me get this straight. I don’t approve this version anymore. I exist on my own. She has no right to take away my character. I am writer myself. Enough said, I’d like to take back my right, my life, my story. She has no right… I…
“Hell yes I do, Paul! Paula! I think you know by now you are not real. I’m the one who makes you up. I create you even before that very moment I put you in the first paragraph letting you believe that I am the one who is ignorant. Poor child, come on! I’m your mother. I let you come out of me. See I put “YOU” here in my words, my phrases, my lines, my plots, my story, my world. Are you beginning to see? To darken down this lightness, I use my words to create you with black ink into this blank paper-white world” Paula stated in monotone.
I say LET THERE BE YOU, and there were you.
By that time there was no more Paul in any available selves: a character, a protagonist, an antagonist, a narrator, a writer, an alter-ego… Adam.
All is one and none is real.
There was only Paula who was undercover hiding behind Paul, her pseudonym. And she was satisfied but trying to cover it up with that well-trained shyness in the loveliest way she could pretend: sucking her left index, the very finger she used to tickle her godmother’s womb drawing the letter “I” even before she was created into this world. Even before the creation. Even before God-know-when.
And in case you wonder why Pink, I have to admit that “ I ” , as the writer , have no ideas.
เรื่องนี้ได้เกรด B+++ ถูกจารย์เรียกไปอธิบายเรื่อง คุยกันเกือบครึ่งชม.
จารย์บอกว่า “a hard one, too hard to get an A. Ill give you an A-
Next time, learn to compromise, ok!
“don’t underestimate the readers’ impatience!!!…”