Forum Threads and Dreams

[TheNextOne]

The addiction had simply become this: he couldn't stop waiting for replies from the writers forum he'd joined on the Internet. Everything he wrote, save for the random grocery list or perhaps complete and utter rubbish, he would post on a new thread, subscribe to it instantly, and wait for...whatever. Accolades, tarnishes, any number of possible responses were welcome, and all he had to do was sit at his computer during times he didn't work and write something, anything! The people who read and replied, he knew, were in fact the smartest ones reading the forums. It was the ones who didn't reply, people he didn't know, screen names he had yet to learn, they were of little or no consequence. He figured they judged based on the title of the new thread alone.

He sat back and surfed another web page before tabbing back to the writing forum to read someone else's thread. He started and stopped and was reminded of an event from his own life. He opened up his Word program and began typing away as fast as his skinny fingers would go, cursing and muttering under his breath every time his fingers hit the wrong key forcing him to hit the backspace, or worse to use the mouse and highlight text that needed replacing all together.

He heard rumblings at his door, a small scrape from behind him. He knew it was the dog, needing desperately to go outside and relieve itself. His insides boiled at the thought of being interrupted yet again, but he knew he would absolutely explode if he had to clean up piss or shit from the carpet. It might turn out to be a dead dog in that case. Everyone else was gone, so why couldn't he be left to his writing devices?

The faint, almost inaudible sound of fur sliding against particle wood door amplified in his ears. He stood from his computer, the bottoms of his thighs hitting the outstretched keyboard and causing a loud clatter.

“Shit! All right! FINE! I'll take you out!” He made a sound of raging disgust and hobbled away from his computer with great will, the words on his screen temporarily forgotten and replaced with rage for the stupid creature that could not help itself. He picked the small Pug up in his arms rather hastily, feeling a new sense of unease and bitter resentment at the knowledge that this dog would leave coarse white hair all over his clothes, plainly visible for anyone to see and then mock him about later.

Briefly, he had a vision of simply throwing the pug out the door with all his might, and felt a pang of horror at the image. He could just see it, the plump beige body of the pug gliding through the air like some crazed version of a nerf ball, frantically pawing at nothingness for purchase that would never come, seeing it dive headlong onto the country gravel driveway they had, and bright red blood in the sunlight. Later, a frantic mother, perhaps being thrown out without house or... He buried the images and stuffed down his anger of inconvenience. This was not the proper way for a human being to be acting, and he knew it.

He gently placed the pug on the ground, thanking his lucky stars that he had more common sense than an enraged ape. This is what separates us from the animal kingdom...conscience, he thought. He squirmed and danced from foot to foot, cursing the dog mentally, while he waited for the damn thing to smell every blade of grass before it decided on the perfect spot to take aim.

Visions of being a famous writer, the kind that only the likes of Stephen King, J.K. Rowling, Michael Crichton, and perhaps Richard Matheson (in his heyday that was) could appreciate. He had brilliance flowing through his mind, threatening to poor from his forehead like molten lava and incinerate everything around him if he didn't translate the images in his mind to the written word. The dog finished peeing and began sniffing another blade of grass, presumably to piss him off or perhaps to see just how many more drops could be squeezed from doggy bladder.
He grunted mild disgust and thought about his computer. The Internet had made things all too easy now. You could easily edit and then publish your own works, for free mind you, and then say you were a published author! You could turn heads when they walked in the door.

“Hey, isn't that your name? You wrote books? Wow! Let's get married!” Of course he knew that was as unlikely as the sky deciding to turn purple in the next ten seconds, but the implication of possibility was there. People could read his work, they could think it was great, they may want to show it to their friends, perhaps one of them being an editor for a major publication house. Hell, anything was possible, this was the twenty first century.

The dog began to sit down in a sideways posture that sent a new tendril of fury through his lungs. Oh no you don't, you goddamn interrupting little shit, he thought. He picked the pug back up in his arms and raced inside the house. He got back to his computer. The sentence he left wasn't even finished. He reread the first paragraph and closed the document without saving it. Absolute trash. Total crap, as the British might say. He felt annoyed and so check his email again. He refreshed it a few times but there were no replies to his last thread. He felt a sense of surreality. It was probably his best work yet, but there was no reply! He wanted to cry, but people who cried never won any prizes. He started a new document, trying to soothe the savage beast within, sighing with self resignation. He knew, alas, he really got it, he would never live the life of his dreams, but instead would live the life dreamlike in a pursuit that could never be attained. The life of the famous writer was now officially myth. The statistic he had read earlier hit home with such force he wanted to turn his computer off. Only 200 people made an actual living as fictional writers in this world.

He saddened with this thought but persisted in the face of statistics anyway. His fingers felt sore at each keystroke, but he didn't care. It was the brutally unapologetic person that finished the race in the world of the written word. He typed words on the screen, hoping that one day they might make sense even to himself.

[The Backward OX]

Why this has languished, apparently unloved, on site for sixteen hours is a mystery. Don't others recognise good writing when they see it?

(They're probably all too busy pissing in each others’ pockets over the damnfool fantasy and horror and science-fiction they spew out in the warped belief they’re writing something readable.)

It made me laugh, it made me cry, it made me mad. It is writing par excellence.

Except for one small thing.

Is this guy some type of contortionist? The bottoms of his thighs hitting the keyboard?

[TheNextOne]

Thank you Ox, what you say means...well, a lot. It almost enlisted the same feelings inside me.

I am slapping my forehead , because of course the bottoms of his thighs couldn't hit the keyboard!

The tops of his thighs however...I believe that was what I did mean. Forgive me, I did not edit this piece. It came out in a brilliant flash and it is fully my fault for not examining it more carefully before throwing it out to the crisp water of the writers pool.

[Delvok]

I like it. It's well-written (besides the whole thighs hitting the keyboard part, lol) and I can understand and relate to the character involved.

Overall, it's preety good. Not much else to say.

[TheNextOne]

Devlok, I don't think there's supposed to be much to need to say about it. Basically it was an exercise in capturing one small portion of a fictional character's day, and...I think I scored in one goal, which is that you should feel some level of identification with the protagonist.

The other thing I wanted to be sure of in this short story was that I used no names (except for pug--which is a generic name for the breed of dog) and still got you involved in the story. I see where I could clean it up and perhaps submit it for a contest. I'm just not sure it would win anything...especially given the utter lack of interest in this piece as evidenced by the usual crowd on these forums.

[Fossy]

Oh God, that is so sad.

Oh God, that is so me!!!!

I sit with fingertips poised over the key-board, waiting for my brilliant prose to make its way to the screen, when my dog scratches on the door to go out.

I ignore it for a few minutes, collecting my thoughts, until it becomes unrelenting.


I let her out and hurry back to my computer, still poised, still waiting for that brilliance to shine, shaking my head in disbelief at my outstanding talent. Then five minutes later the yapping starts and she wants to come back in.

I slam my fists on the keyboard,

';[p/s

(okay, that was a gentle slam) then push the chair with the backs of my knees, till it skates halfway across the floor.

I have to use hand gestures to call her back in, cos she's deaf and she doesn't see me at first. Then her eyes look up and she has to have one more squat before running up the steps and inside. I can't even scold her, cos she can't hear me

So now folks, you know why everything I've written on here is total crap - blame it on the mutt.

[TheNextOne]

Fossy,

I haven't read anything you've written on here...yet. I'll be looking now. And, let me just say, that...by what you've written just there, I am not yet able to believe what you say about your writing being total crap.

I'll need proof. And if I don't see proof, I will scold you about it and say wonderful things about your stories to...well, anyone who will listen.

I wrote this because...it's every one of us at one time or another, none of us are immune to this stage in the development of our writing.

Persist, I say!

[Fossy]

I thankyou TheNextOne, though, I also apologise for letting my pen run away with me. I should have said how wonderful your story is, instead of running off on a tangent as I did.

I really enjoyed reading it, the simple truth behind it and the cleverness of thinking to even write it. Lovely writing.

[TheNextOne]

Oh yeah...I forgot people are here to make comments as well as observations! lol. Don't worry, Fossy, I enjoyed your tangent quite well. Now that I'm done with work I'll have to look into some of your writings as well.

Thanks for saying my writing is lovely. I've never thought so, and clever...well, that's one to write home to momma about. Thanks for your kindness.