(RULES: Write a fictional diary entry for a historical figure...in ten minutes)
Thursday--or Friday...who really cares...
So I've been writing in this journal now for two weeks, and I can definitely say it isn't worth $@#&. "Writer's Block" (as my idiot of an agent calls it) cannot be got through simply by filling up a stack of pages with the drudgery of life. I wish it could.
It has been eight *&%$ weeks (if my calculations are right) since my powers of invention have become no more than a wasteland in my mind, and still I am no closer to the end of my book. Santiago is still lost in his boat, having just caught the marlin, and if this affliction of mine continues, he will die there before I get him ashore. I can see it now: Patterson and the people at Scribner's reading with horror as I describe the slow picking of parrot fish and seagulls on the bodies of both the hunter and the hunted alike. He'd swallow his stogie as sure as I'm sitting here...no doubt. It is strange, though... the picture decaying flesh presents--however disturbing it might be to the public--is alluring in its own way. The readers of course wouldn't stand up for old Santiago dying that way--wouldn't sell. Oh, well. Maybe I can use part of the picture anyhow.
I've been writing too long. My hand hurts. I'm going for a walk along the water--the tide has gone and maybe it has washed up something worth writing about.
It is 92 degrees, the wind is light--from the south as always--and I hope I come up with something soon so I don't have to keep writing this.
Thursday--or Friday...who really cares...
So I've been writing in this journal now for two weeks, and I can definitely say it isn't worth $@#&. "Writer's Block" (as my idiot of an agent calls it) cannot be got through simply by filling up a stack of pages with the drudgery of life. I wish it could.
It has been eight *&%$ weeks (if my calculations are right) since my powers of invention have become no more than a wasteland in my mind, and still I am no closer to the end of my book. Santiago is still lost in his boat, having just caught the marlin, and if this affliction of mine continues, he will die there before I get him ashore. I can see it now: Patterson and the people at Scribner's reading with horror as I describe the slow picking of parrot fish and seagulls on the bodies of both the hunter and the hunted alike. He'd swallow his stogie as sure as I'm sitting here...no doubt. It is strange, though... the picture decaying flesh presents--however disturbing it might be to the public--is alluring in its own way. The readers of course wouldn't stand up for old Santiago dying that way--wouldn't sell. Oh, well. Maybe I can use part of the picture anyhow.
I've been writing too long. My hand hurts. I'm going for a walk along the water--the tide has gone and maybe it has washed up something worth writing about.
It is 92 degrees, the wind is light--from the south as always--and I hope I come up with something soon so I don't have to keep writing this.
I really enjoyed this one, Mark. I especially liked the very specific weather details at the end. Nice touch!
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