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Monologue:  Today I Am a Writer

By Wisshen

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MONOLOGUE: TODAY I AM A WRITER
By Wisshen

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Author's Notes: A light-hearted insight into the mind
of a writer, following the style of 'a day in the
life…' stories. Around five minutes worth of giggling
or at least one or two 'haha's.
Hopefully.

This is an experiment in writing from a first person
POV as well as 'flash fiction'.

Dated: 7th July 2001

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"Today, I am a writer!" I proclaim to myself.

Long, loud and brimming with the conviction of
youthful enthusiasm, the words tumble in a thick
silence, echoing off the walls of the room. I pause as
the awkwardness of the following moment lights little
beacon fires in the blood vessels just under the skin
of my cheeks. I glare down at the little booklet in my
hand, my lips forming a downward curve.

"And how does this boost my self-esteem, eh?" I ask of
the bold black print, giving the glossy pages a little
shake.

No answer. Not that I'm expecting one - not in a world
defined by logical rules and strict reality. Now if
this were, say, Dreamland or some such pretty fantasy,
I'd be more surprised if the booklet actually stayed a
booklet longer than a few minutes. Well. I'd dipped
into the petty cashbox - always a painful affair - to
acquire this little treasure, so I might as well get
my money's worth by finishing the stupid thing.
Scanning turned into skimming as the text rambled on
about the oldest writing tips in history, long
engraved in stone and then some.

"Writing is hard work," I say out loud, hoping to
stave off imminent boredom as I neared the end of the
booklet. "Writing isn't for wusses." Summarising and
adding a twist to the messages being blared at me in
blocky, capital letters was satisfying to the extreme.
"Writing means writing everyday, whether you want to
or not. Yeah, that means kicking yourself out of your
nice comfy bed at three in the morning if you
remembered that you haven't written in your personal
writing journal yet. Being a writer automatically
makes you a hermit. This is bad. Take steps to correct
immediately."

I pause, allowing my thoughts to drift on the various
ways of beating back solitude.

"This," I say with an airy gesture that results in the
temporary (loud!) meeting of wall and booklet, "means
running around screaming in public to attract
attention. 'I'm a hermit! I'm a hermit! I don't want
to be a hermit!'. Failing that, it could also mean
strolling down to the shops and listening to the
shopkeepers embarrassing stories about your babyhood
seeing as they knew you when you were three and only
ye high."

I tilt my head and eye the booklet. "And what if I
prefer to be locked up in my own personal tower, hm?"

I tap a finger on the surface of the glossy white
page, smoothing over a crinkle. Advice booklets are
overrated. They don't give advice. They command!
Innocent little black ants marching over a paper-thin,
liquid paper white surface that barge into the calm
flow of your river and tell it to go 'this way!
Because it is the best way!'.

I'm thinking this would be a good time to smack myself
for parting with almost a quarter of my hard-earned
shinies for this twice be-damned booklet. So, I do.

Ouch - I pack a mean slap.

Whimper and feel-sorry-for-myself time is now. Tossing
the booklet away, I flop down on my nice soft bed and
ponder the mystery of writing and being a writer. What
really defines those words, anyway? I consider lugging
out the dictionary, but decide that the effort needed
won't pay enough dividends to satisfy.

After a while, I raise an index finger high in the air
and wave it before my eyes as a schoolmaster would a
baton. "Writing is. Ideas. Ideas skittering all over
your, err, workspace (notebook, paper napkin, Word
document or whattever). Ideas in the forms
ofsentences; sentences painting a picture within the
mind."

Pleased with my definition, I ponder the second word,
it being more of an enigma to me. Idea factory?
Novelist? Starving artiste (never, ever forget the
'e'!)? Hmm. "A writer is one who writes."

Nice and simple. Then come the questions of what is a
'real' writer, and what is not?

"Published and unpublished," I voice my first thoughts
and grimace. In the eyes of the world, maybe, but not
so in truth. In my humble opinion. Lets see what Mr.
Booklet says.

Picking out the key words, I mumble them under my
breath: "Dedicated (fanatic), thick-skinned (I'm a
rock!) and plenty, plenty hard work (I'm a fun Type A
personality!)."

Considering I'm a lazy bum that writes as and when the
mood strikes, I don't appear to fit the bill. But hey,
I'm writing all of this and what do you know, it's
past midnight. That takes care of the fanatic part.
And I always thought writing equates fun - otherwise,
why do it? Check. And for the lucky third: this isn't
hard work.

Ha! Take that, Mr. Booklet!

Suffused with the warm glow of accomplishment, I
announce with just the right mixture of pride and
defiance, "Today I *am* a writer!"

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