P.L. Said
ERROR!
My writing is done through typing, so this might might sound odd. Sometimes, when the words are speeding through me and I’m in the scene, I close my eyes as I type, because I don’t need to see the words. Weirdly, the words are a distraction, and get in my way. With my eyes closed, I jump into a fast rhythm.
A problem only develops when I open my eyes and discover I have one or both hands incorrectly positioned on the keyboard. It’s first funny, but then aggravating, because I was streaming, and I don’t really know what I was typing.
Yeah, just happened a short time ago, when I decided to rewrite several pages. Hoo, boy. Gulp some coffee and begin again. That’s all I can do.
I Live In My Writing
I live in my writing,
an odd place to be,
but you’d be there, too,
if you see what I see.
I live in my writing,
and lose track of time,
at least in this world,
but, to me, that’s fine.
I live in my writing,
enjoying the ambiance of life,
it’s an unlimited existence,
and has far less strife.
I live in my writing,
and some are dismayed,
so am I, really,
because I never get paid.
I live in my writing,
it’s a solitary existence,
and maybe existential,
but at least it’s consistent.
The Optimistic Writer
He’d died, but he didn’t know it. He’d been writing his novel, and then editing and revising it. It wasn’t until he’d finished it that he came up for air and discovered he no longer had a body, and wasn’t a part of anyone’s earthly existence.
As far as he could ascertain, he’d been dead for several months. Probate of his meager estate was concluded, his clothing and personal items given away, and his name moved from one set of records to another. The cause of his death wasn’t clear. It seemed that he couldn’t see that, no matter how he tried to view it.
After some reflection, he wasn’t too concerned. Being dead meant no more concerns about money, health, politics, and the environment. He didn’t need to worry about being killed crossing the street or shot by some madman with a gun. The worst part about his death appeared to be that he was out of coffee.
That was going to put a crimp in his plans. On the other hand, he had a new novel idea.
He couldn’t wait to get started.
The Stairs Dream
Here’s a dream fragment from last night.
I was walking a carpeted hallway when I came to a doorway at the hallway’s end. Dark brown, it was a metal door, the kind found in office buildings in America as emergency exits. Not seeing any signs, I looked back and then decided to open it and go through. As I am in life, I was cautious when I use doors like this, and confirmed that it wasn’t locked, and that I could open it from the other side. I didn’t want to be trapped somewhere.
The other side was a well-lit landing. I seemed to be in the middle of a building. I didn’t see any signs, but I decided on an impulse that I’d go up.
Up I went, with my feet clattering on the stairs, which, I realized, were metal. Okay. After going to the next level, I saw a red sign that said in white lettering, “SECOND FLOOR”.
I paused to lean over the railings and look at the stairs above and below. I didn’t see how it could be the second floor. There were a lot of stairs below. It didn’t make any sense. If I was now on the second floor, than the floor I was on before was the first floor, right? Was the first floor the ground floor? I thought, well, maybe the steps going down past that level descend to a basement level or a parking garage.
I decided to go back down. Reaching that floor, I saw another red sign with white lettering, “FIFTH FLOOR”. That make no fucking sense. Facing the door to open it and leave the stairwell, I found a green door. I remembered that it’d been brown. The color change disconcerted me.
As I went to open the door, it opened. A young white male briskly came out. Dressed in business casual, with trim, short-brown hair, he smiled at me as he went by. Then he stopped and said, “Do you need help?”
I said, “What floor is this?”
Pointing at the sign, he said, “The second floor,” which was what the sign said.
As I tried to reconcile that with what’d already happened, he said, “Where are you going?”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
He laughed. “Are you looking for a particular office or person?”
I laughed. “I don’t know what the hell I’m looking for.”
The dream ended.
With a little surprise as I awoke, I thought that I remembering having a dream like this years ago. I thought of it as an ambivalent dream, reflecting my indecisiveness and uncertainty. Yes, where am I going? What do I want to do? I want to write, and I do write, but beyond that, I want publishing success, but I don’t want to market myself or jump through hoops to get published.
Yes, what am I looking for? Sometimes I rue being me.
Michael Seidel, writer 