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What to do? How to do it?
Pretty short, about 300 words.
What is the purest story one could write? When does elaboration become wordiness? What is needed? What exactly is the fat that should be cut away? Does asking these questions mean that I’ve already screwed up my chance? No, the story must begin with a question; the earlier we get to the point the better.
My name is Clyde Tearson, Hello. The first question has been answered you see—you’re on the edge of your seat. I am thirty three years old. I live alone. I’ve no girlfriend, no trusting social circle, and no pets. Holiday cards from my grandmother and missed calls on my caller ID; what I have are obligations to which I stray from my duty.
The brain, it’s supposed to be a powerful computer, right? It’s supposed to make precise measurements, relay the necessary information—take care of business? Because all I have is a mess. It’s just a heap of un-ironed memories. The tops of closet hangers grow from the soil, and when I pull them I fish up all kinds of sensual sickness—my nose contracts in disgust, proclaiming “I wish I didn’t exist!”
But that’s what we all do, you know? Some people have fewer hangers—or they’ve better organized them—but all we really do is pull up a wardrobe and decide whether or not we’re okay with it. What is science? Is it just the ability to control one’s fashion by only pulling very specific hangers?
Now, see? Is it purer when I make a metaphor—to describe my own interpretation of a phenomenon, or would it be more pure if I played the minimalist—the less the better?
Fine: “I’m frustrated”.
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