Komyu
Published in

Komyu

This is the first story I have ever written on an iPad. This won’t be the first story I write with the same feeling of inadequacy as I burn yet another prepackaged tilapia fillet. I,m sure it’s that’s smell that drives my roommates cat into my lap, knocking bits of rice here and there as she stalks across the floor for whatever it was that I dropped on the way to the sofa

If you were a cat, you wouldn’t have to struggle with the idea that good writers just write. Not having opposable thumbs must be nice.

If good writers write all the time, what are their resting thoughts like? Is prose forming itself flawlessly in the far recesses of their cortexes while they decide just how much money they want to spend on Greek yogurt? Or are they actually scrolling through writing prompts instead of “@ A has to buy you nachos” and “Wish a happy birthday to that person you went on a tinder date with a few times and it’s kinda wired how you haven’t deleted them yet.”

I think the idea that great writers are bot is a load of malarkey and old timey words like marlarkey should be confidently injected in everyday conversation.

Do great writers dress a certain way? do they like one brand of perfume over another? What do they smell like? As a child, you imagine writers dressed up as if they had to solve a mystery before bed time, chain smoking all the while.

Maybe brilliant writers always have ciggerettes with their coffee. Or coffee with their ciggerettes. The taste differs slightly depending on the order you begin one and finish the other. Are they filled with all these great experiences that they have had, all the while coughing from tiny, smokers lungs.

When I studied in Japan, I took up chain smoking just so I could feel what it was like to be served my offensively small cup of coffee with an ash tray on the side. The nicest thing was that you could conk right out on those Formica tables and you were woken as gently as if you were in your own home when it was closing time.

Great writers are assholes.

There’s this little betrayal of intimacy as you sit across from them and wonder if your interaction will inspire their next essay, poem, list, and crumpled receipt scribbles. The extra crinkly ones.

Great writers are so because they exist so fully in their world and yours that they can’t help but to reflect it back to you in bits of dialogue or vague comparison.

And lastly.

Great writers write.

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