On Writing in the Dark (Or: On Not Becoming a Lawyer)

One of the most important aspects of writing a story (or in this case, a nonfiction bastardization of an essay) is making your main character (‘the protagonist’ for those of you craving official sounding diction) likeable. If the character is not likable, then why would the reader (you) give a good goddamn if the writer (me) drops a house on his head or kills the one person who has ever had the courtesy to love him. I am sure that you know the importance of popularity, so I will not stress the point further. So, given that I am rambling, and given that this story (essay) has no protagonist yet (or a house with which to drop on him), I will begin.
(The beginning is always difficult to start as it is usually the first thing a person will read. (Unless of course they are a nonconformist who believes that the only way to properly begin a story is at the end. If you are one of these most special individuals, I implore you to read the ending of this essay (story) immediately.) It is even harder to create a loveable beginning when it is prefaced by a slightly incoherent and parenthesis riddled introduction from the author. Parenthetical abuse forgotten, we begin.)

I sat down at my desk and ran my fingers through my thick brown hair. I picked up a ball point pen and looked at the modest stack of blank paper sitting casually in front of me. I cracked my knuckles, and with a great deal of trepidation, began to write.

I have begun my story (essay), and as you can see it is off to a normal start with a normal style and is flavored with a normal vocabulary. (My repetition of the word ‘normal’ obviously means something here, doesn’t it?) That being said (and violently understood by the author), I find this beginning to be dry (and pedantic). Allow me to try again in a different style. (Be patient with me, Reader. I am desperately in love with you right now; do not forsake me!)

I tiptoed gracefully over to my desk, my gait like that of a young gazelle as it skips playfully away from the nagging bite of its mother. I sat down and picked up a blue fountain pen that had been given to me by my grandfather on his deathbed. It had a unique green sheen to it, a sheen that glistened like the wet carapace of a sea turtle coming up for air. Spread before me like the wings of a dove taking flight lay a stack of delicate white parchment. I spread my fingers out across the paper like a spider spreads its deadly trap from branch to branch, and with a great deal of humility and holiness, I began to create.

Study with a scientific eye the second start to my essay (story). I think we can both agree (and if we do not, I ask that you try) that the above paragraph, while longer than the first, is unbearably pretentious. If our roles were reversed, I would not bother to read on, having already decided that the writer is in fact, a terrible human being. To be honest (it is all right to be honest with you, isn’t it?) I am quite embarrassed to have written that shimmering bouquet of similes. (If only you could see me blush!) I suppose there is a valuable lesson to be learned here (although for the life of me I cannot wrap my mind around it). I will try again, for as as the old saying goes, ‘The Third Time is the Charm’.

I walked over to my desk and sat down. In front of me there was a pile of paper. I found a pen and began to write.

I suppose ‘old sayings’ are almost always wrong (sinfully, painfully, wonderfully wrong) are they not? Can you forgive me, Reader? If not, I completely understand and I ask you to take this manuscript (if one can even call it that) and burn it immediately. But be careful; burn it only if the overriding emotion is a great dollop of apathy. (Never burn something you hate; you’ll end up missing it before it turns to ash) If you are the merciful person I believe you to be, then continue reading as redemption is surely ahead. (I promise. (Is it all right to lie?))
After a story (essay) has been started, it is important to establish some sort of conflict that the main character has some chance of overcoming (or being overcome by, depending on the author’s mood and/or opinion on sadism). This can be an internal struggle (“Perhaps some metaphorical dragons that need slaying?” he asked inanely), or an external struggle (“Perhaps a fight against some real dragons that need slaying?” he asked insipidly). There are, of course, other things to throw at the poor protagonist, but I do not have the time to explain them here. (In actuality, I am ignorant to these other struggles, although I know that they exist.) Having already written a beginning to my essay (story), I shall now attempt to introduce conflict. (For your entertainment I will attempt both an internal and external struggle, although not in one go. That is beyond me.)

I wrote through the night. The pen danced in front of me, transmuting my jumbled thoughts from intangible to tangible. I wrote until the sun came up and when I finished, I collapsed from the sheer exhaustion of it all. It is no wonder then that I was unable to smell the smoke that filled my room, unable to hear the fire alarm as it screamed somewhere overhead.

Oh, Reader, what excitement! As you know, this is an example of an external struggle. I imagine (hope is a better word) that you are all on the edge of your seats and asking your neighbor in a whispering hush: “Will he wake up? Will he escape?” Sadly, I cannot continue with this particular plot as this is a nonfiction story (essay) and I have never experienced anything exciting or dangerous in my life. I confess that I am a boring person. (A boring, boring, boring person.) It is with a heavy heart that I present to you, disguised as plain fact, ‘The Real Deal’:

I wrote for several hours. I agonized over every sentence and the white pages quickly filled with violent blue slashes. My head began to hurt and my hand began to cramp. I did not stop though, and when it was finished I set it aside and took a deep breath.
Two weeks and several drafts later, the story was finally decent. It was filled with love. It was also filled with pain, anger and frustration, but mainly it was filled with love. I carefully typed the pages up, correcting any errors found along the way, and then printed out the finished product. I reread it slowly, proud at what I had given birth to. But living in the back of my head was a small voice, and this small voice said in a very loud whisper: “Mud and sticks. Mud and sticks is all they’ll ever see.”

A much less exciting narrative, I’m sorry to say. It’s the truth though, and if there is one thing that this essay (story) demands, it’s honesty. (Notice, if you will, the depth of the last statement, the “mud and sticks” one. Notice how it loses all depth in my arrogant declaration of it being so.)
Oh, I am so tired, Reader! This air of brevity (however sarcastic it may be) is positively exhausting (I can barely breathe!). I am considering retiring this ridiculous tone altogether and adopting a much more appropriate one (if I knew how to write appropriately, that is. It takes a braver man than I to undertake the complex endeavor of writing appropriately). I apologize yet again, dear Reader, for the umpteenth time. It seems as if I have once again lost track of myself. (One last departure from relevance before we proceed into the next section: Never take yourself seriously. If you do, you’ll forget everything that you’ve ever enjoyed and will most likely live out the rest of your life not understanding a word anyone says.)
Finally, after a long and arduous trek through the overwritten jungle (filled to the brim with manic, bug-eyed snakes), we have reached the climax of our little story. Our hero (protagonist) has been through quite a lot (I mean to say, he has been through this and that) and now his ‘adventure’ will come to a close. When the final word is written he will cease to be and we will all forget about him, for that has been his purpose; to distract you and me from real life so that we may deceive ourselves into thinking, if only for a moment, that we are not Plain John Doe. This is the tragic (and simple) purpose of writing (isn’t it?).
Oh, Reader. I’ve depressed myself. Here is the ending, in realistic, brutal prose.

The story is finished and done. A few will see it, most of them will forget what they’re reading as they read it, while others will hold it out at arm’s length and smile when appropriate. A bitter few will flay your characters alive and leave them bleeding and screaming on the ground. And then it is done, and you are stuck with yet another orphaned collection of your dearest friends. They will go into a folder, that folder will go into a desk drawer, and you will try your hardest to pretend that they don’t matter. You’ll go to bed and fall asleep. And when you wake up, you won’t remember who you are.

I can’t do this anymore. (No need for forgiveness this time Reader, as I know you understand.) I am finding it hard to think, my mind having gone foggy and thick several poorly constructed sentences back. I have lost wit, I have lost faith and I have most certainly lost myself. (Are you curious as to what that means? So am I.) Perhaps this detachment (and it is detachment) from reality comes from having done exactly what I have told you not to do (which is, of course, that bit about taking yourself seriously. Some more advice: Always trust a hypocrite). Perhaps it comes from something much more ‘everyday’. (For example: lack of sleep, lack of exercise, lack of lacking something to lack.) Regardless, I’m finished. (Goodbye, Reader. I’ll always love you. (And if I don’t, I promise to pretend.))