There was a man who used to come here on afternoons and weekends. Upon entering, he would clack his feet against the rough-worn entry mat, take his brimmed hat in his hands, and walk about the grounds, admiring the rose bushes and the birch trees most of all.
In the fall he would carry a coffee from a nearby diner, a cheap Styrofoam to-go cup, its snakes of vapor gaining volume in the chilly air above. In winter it was hot chocolate with a white smattering of foam atop its surface, of memories of marshmallows. In the summer it was only his hat, and later a cane, that kept his hands company on his meandering.
He rarely came with others in tow, though in the spring and early summer there would occasionally be a child or two running laps around his easy gait, telling him stories as they sat on a wooden bench and fed the pigeons, taking deep whiffs of the flowers and the greenery as they made their way through.
His dress was always the same light brown checkered coat, darker brown slacks, brown shoes. His grey-stained-white moustache drooped an easy distance away from his bespectacled nose. Snippets of a light-red tie could be spotted as he unbuttoned his coat while seated.
The park was agreeable to the old man, and it saw little reason to take offense to him. Many mayors and people and causes would march through the annals of the city but green still grew where green grew best, and he was along to witness it.
Some saw higher purpose in the earth. Some saw their gods, their meaning, their brighter tomorrows. Some whose eyes were a bit too loud saw a gleaming opportunity. Thankfully the ordinances passed a couple of decades ago had put a stop to them. He'd been uneasy at the headlines for a time, but soon lost touch with them. Before he knew it, the trouble had blown from town.
He wasn't sure what he took from the scene. Part of him disliked the idea of taking from it at all; if he were limited to feeling the way he did at the park, and only at the park, to him that felt like a justified cost of admission.
His favorite was the rain. The liquid chorus turning all around it to an ensemble of percussion, pattering and plunking at each surface, testing its give and its take, its resonance and form. Rain was an assessment from the skies, to find with which among its earthen brethren could it join together and create song. Rain commandeered the air to slip its ideology into the breath of all around.
Rain was a fine debater, he thought.
Before leaving, each visit he would take stock of one specific piece of the landscape; be it a leaf, or a twig, or pinecone or pigeon. He always hoped it wouldn't be there when he returned. He'd hate for things to fall still while he was away. Stillness was for places higher than this, in purpose and power. We modest, misguided few must learn to seek, to avoid, and to arrive on our own, he felt, to use our crude tool of movement to our own path to redemption.
In the fall he would carry a coffee from a nearby diner,
I also believe that a large part of why I'm honing my writing is so that I can one day write long stories filled with such lines. It's kind of like that statement
In a way I hit that point early... unlike most voracious readers who hit it later after having consumed so much stuff. I hit it early because I was the opposite of the achetypical voracious reader. I never liked books to begin with... and I got lucky in highschool by deciding to read
But those two books showed me that there is something greater than fun. Unfortunately I was bad at finding books so after those two I never became a heavy reader. I always wanted the same feeling I got from the two and never could out of just your average novel.
Anyways wondering what your reader/writer journey has been like. What about you
Today, thinking about TGWGC part 3 (which is outlined but not written yet) I thought I kinda hate writing stories. It's a bit like the hearing a recording of yourself; hearing another person is always better. Not only that, but I thought about how much more I enjoy reading than I do writing, especially if it's a story (stuff like this is conversation, after all).
So to answer your question, Abe, my journey was and still is an uneasy one, and I'm always on the cusp of throwing in the towel, mostly because of fiction. When I write it, I become
Anyways, that's funny that you say you kinda hate writing stories. Do you actually hate it? Or do you hate it in the way a lot of young people say they hate jobs and money.... where they say they hate those things when actually they are saying they hate the lack of having a good job and the lack of money more so than the things themselves?