Muse

The click-click of the typewriters filled the air. The sound permeated everything. Any conversation was almost drown out by it. It had almost become a background noise.

This was the sound of monkeys, banging away at the keys, stretching off into the distance.

They were here for a reason. The were the Universe's creative team. A series of random jumbles typed across random pages, occasionally forming an idea.

The shift-change horn screamed out, and the clacking ceased. Monkeys stood up and trudged out. It was an organized effort, for the second shift needed to be at their stations in five minutes.Fresh faces greeted their first shift counterparts with grin and a wave, or an occasional howdy-do.

Phil reached his typewriting station with a cup of joe and a fresh pack of cigarettes. He never said hello to it's previous occupant. George was a bit of a slob. He was also a bit of a bastard, but that was another issue.

Top to Bottom

Whistler spread before him, waiting with virgin snows. The thin air was sharp in his nostrils. The wind whistled a little, giving a sound to the place. It fluttered through the sprigs of hair peaking out here and there from beneath his stocking cap.

He stood at the edge of the run on his board. The anticipation of the decent made him shiver. The cold of the air only made the shiver stronger.

Fear began to creep into his thoughts. At first, it was the slight thought of pain, that minor little nagging idea of falling, badly, and breaking a limb. The fear began to grow into larger injuries and obstacles: trees, boulders, beginners. He tried to suppress the fear, but it needed to be let out.

His breath grew ragged as he tried to pull in more air. This only added to the fear. There was only one way to get more air, and he knew it.

What's My Motivation?

I was inspired the other day^[1] by another blogger, Eric Canete. He frequently posts sketches (he's a comic book artist) that he's done in ninety minutes or less. These are often based off the inspiration of the moment (i.e. what he's watching on the TV). They are all well composed, inked and, in my opinion, quite good.

I don't plan on drawing anytime soon^[2], but I thought to myself, I should write a short story in ninety minutes. Now, I know this means it will be short, and rough, and not entirely fleshed out. The blog could alternatively be called "First Drafts, or The Crap That Fell Out of My Head." The point is to force me to write, to force me to think about beginnings, middles and ends (something I'm really bad at), and generally to try and motivate me to further my writing goals^[3].

Aside from those three things, it will also be a great way to explore ideas. Every couple of days I have an idea for a story, an intro, character, or whatnot. Sometimes I write it down. More often then not I don't. The idea is just lost. The ninety minute short will give me a place to write it and (hopefully) force my hand to do so.

Ah...motivation.

I've already written one that's almost ready to go. I'm sixty minutes into it, and I need to do about thirty of edits and rewrites. Once that's done I'll throw it up here, and maybe, just maybe someone will read it.


[1] Yesterday. I'm spontaneous that way.

[2] That is between me and my office notepad.

[3]Cough. Maybe I should just be honest and call them daydreams.