He settled into his seat on the train, his gaze drawn to the window. Outside, a vast array of lights danced across the night, each one blending into the next in a stream of blurred streaks. The scene, familiar yet isolating, wrapped him in a silent reverie. It would be beautiful, if he liked winter more.
Instead, he had more important things to think about: work, women, friends, the cauliflower dish he was supposed to make for the dinner party tomorrow evening. That reminded him—when would he have time to pick up the ingredients? He would have to stop by the supermarket in the morning before work. Another item to add to his to-do list.
And then, of course, there was the outline for his novel. He had been wrestling with it for the past three days, approaching it from various angles, desperately trying to shape the final act into something meaningful and worth reading. It was really quite troubling; there was no way of knowing if he had done a good job until the entire thing was finished. And by then, would it be too late?
He was also well aware that the plot veered into some dark territory, things that he was certain would cause his friends and family to wonder, “Is he doing ok?”
And to this question, he did not have a clear answer. Because how is one supposed to write something meaningful without including some heavy material?
Was it embarrassing? Maybe. But every hero must pass through a dark forest. Every knight in shining armor must overcome some evil. Profound wisdom is not found from the comfort of our homes, and that is ultimately why we write stories. Right?
He settled into his seat on the train, his gaze drawn to the window. Outside, a vast array of lights danced across the night, each one blending into the next in a stream of blurred streaks. The scene, familiar yet isolating, wrapped him in a silent reverie. It would be beautiful, if he liked winter more.
Instead, he had more important things to think about: work, women, friends, the cauliflower dish he was supposed to make for the dinner party tomorrow evening. That reminded him—when would he have time to pick up the ingredients? He would have to stop by the supermarket in the morning before work. Another item to add to his to-do list.
And then, of course, there was the outline for his novel. He had been wrestling with it for the past three days, approaching it from various angles, desperately trying to shape the final act into something meaningful and worth reading. It was really quite troubling; there was no way of knowing if he had done a good job until the entire thing was finished. And by then, would it be too late?
He was also well aware that the plot veered into some dark territory, things that he was certain would cause his friends and family to wonder, “Is he doing ok?”
And to this question, he did not have a clear answer. Because how is one supposed to write something meaningful without including some heavy material?
Was it embarrassing? Maybe. But every hero must pass through a dark forest. Every knight in shining armor must overcome some evil. Profound wisdom is not found from the comfort of our homes, and that is ultimately why we write stories. Right?
