The Writing Process

     So I was sitting in this room with absolutely nothing to do, completely devoid of any emotion that might keep me occupied, or at least give my mind a small, temporary distraction.  I sat there for a long time, just looking at the room.  One twin-sized bed, covered with white sheets and topped off with a solid, sky-blue comforter.  Bare walls.  The wooden desk at which I sit, made of who-knows-what, is who-knows-how old.  And who else has sat at this same desk in the past?  This too is unknown.  But who cares, really?  Such pieces of information are trivial.  1

    OK, so you’re reading this, so I don’t have to tell you that I came to my last resort—writing.  If you don’t like it, no one’s forcing you to read this.  And if they are…  I don’t know what to tell you.  Maybe I created some piece of work that is pure genius.  But like someone once said, “Genius ain't anything more than elegant common sense.”  Anyway, none of this really matters, really.  I’m hesitant of writing because I’m afraid that I’ll get sucked into writing the classic short story.  2

    OK, so in my opinion there are two types of classic short stories that I’m afraid of writing.  One is with the family of four.  The dad works until 5:00 pm, the mom works, but is off in time to make a nutritious dinner every night.  They have one daughter, and she has a younger brother.  The younger brother will inevitably tease his sister about her new, respectable boyfriend, and she’ll playfully give him a little punch in the arm.  They’ll eat supper as a family and talk about school and the soccer game and the piano recital.  Then they’ll have a bowl of ice cream, go to bed, and do the whole damn thing again the next day.  Why anyone would write a story like that, I have no idea.  Maybe it’s because it’s what we want for ourselves.  At least, what we think we want, at first.  When I really think about it, if I lived such a monotonous, so-called perfect life, I’m sure I’d have to shoot myself.  When I really think about it, it makes me want to gag.3

    Anyway, the second classic short story is also about a family of four.  But in this one, the dad doesn’t do his fair share so he and his wife are having marital issues.  The mother rushes home from work to pop some frozen pizzas in the oven for supper.  The daughter’s feeling trapped in her crappy life and rebels by dying her hair pink, getting an eyebrow ring, and dating the biggest dick in the school.  I’m not trying to say anything bad about people with dyed hair or piercings.  If I was going to stereotype them in any way according to my personal feelings, it would be that they are the ones who are really thinking, and usually are truly kind to all people.  But hey, I can’t help how the classic story goes.  Anyway, the daughter says screw the pizza, runs out the door and drives off with the jerk on the motorcycle.  And the mom’s freaking out because of the bad example the daughter’s setting for her little brother.  4

    I guess we fall into the trap of writing this story line because we all have dysfunctional families, and we all have a little bit of rebelness in us.  It’s very easy to fall into the trap of writing either one of these classic stories.  That’s why I usually try to write what I know.  Because no one—I don’t hesitate to be inclusive, for I really believe this—no one wants to hear another story about the family of four, if they’re honest with themselves.  5