[10/26] Just Another Draft
This story is part of the A-Z challenge that I’m doing.
This is not a story. It’s just another draft — one from the hundreds that I’ve saved on my computer. Every time I sit to write, usually between midnight and two in the morning, I have no clue what I’d be writing. I keep tapping my fingers on the keyboard until I end up with a sentence I get a good feeling about. For instance, I loved when the keystrokes conjured up the sentence, “This is not a story”. Then, I have an anchor to write around. The vastness of my thoughts gets moored around one sentence.
And from that gem of a sentence, flows the garbage. It seems ironical but almost every time, few paragraphs following the first sentence are garbage. Do I throw out the draft? No. Do I publish it out to the world? Not yet. I keep spitting out the garbage, non-stop, for about another three hundred words. And then, I hit a gem. Not another sentence this time. But an idea. A thought. An inspiration. A muse. A calling. Call it whatever but the purpose of the draft appears among the rubbish words. It hits me right in the face. And from then, the story begins flowing.
I am sure you all have felt this feeling before. Imagine listening to a song — a soft song. And at one point of time, you get a chill running down your spine and you notice goosebumps on your arms. You want to dance at such point in the song. That euphoric feeling gets imbibed in me after a few paragraphs of shitting on the draft. But once the feeling arrives, there’s no stopping. One time, I sat down to write a short story, and nothing hit me even after writing five hundred words. It happened around nine hundred words and when it happened, I didn’t realize how the hours went past by and I ended up with a story fourteen thousand words long. It’d be unwise to call one story my favorite for the rest might take offense, but I won’t deny that if ever my house caught fire, that story would be the first one that I’d save.
Sometimes, I try to cheat by pretending I am writing. I sit down and think (instead of writing) of a sentence that I like, and then weave a story around it. But it never worked. I have mumbled thousands of words inside my head and the calling never happened. My laziness has never yielded a story, not even a shitty one. Sometimes it feels like my boss is keeping a watch on me and won’t give me permission to leave for home until he sees me doing the work in the exact way he wants it to happen. To make it easier to comprehend for my little brain, I call this boss, Universe.
I know it sounds cheesy to admit, “I don’t tell stories. Universe does. I just listen to it and write” but I’d be lying if I won’t. All the times, I’ve fallen in and out of love. All the times, I’ve won and lost. All the times, I’ve died and survived. I was a mere narrator. Storyteller? I myself haven’t seen him yet. But beware of considering me a spiritual soul; you might be disappointed. I am an atheist. And this is just another draft.