Saturday, November 12, 2005

What is a story? What is structured writing? What constitutes a beginning middle and end, and thereby bankable marketable material? Where do ideas come from? Where does the diligence and forebearance to bring said ideas to fruition in the form of polished manuscript come from? Why doesn’t everyone write all the time? Why are not all our thoughts published in weighty tomes in cavernous libraries full of archival editions, not the electronic, the literal, the feel, the actuality, of a book, of paper wrapped together between thicker paper. But this requires investment, pooling of actual resources to create somoething from potentially nothing, which requires belief, future monies down the road justifying the investment, and thereby people, editors, to read weighty tomes still in electronic or jumbled pile of paper format, no matted cover, no artistic rendition professionally rendered. No, apparent crap run of the mill and without a name nothing to rectify one man or woman’s eye to an author’s vision and therefore free the pursestrings of injustice. But this is a necessary system or else you’d have that giant library full of crap, and our cities are overpopulated by bulky and eye-sore inducing edificies anyway, now aren’t they? Ok, commercial’s over.

Johnny walked down the street, just to get a sandwich. Ok, and a Snapple iced tea. That’s all he was trying to do. Just get that mayonaisse plus toasted bread and salted cured meat taste in his mouth. Maybe some olives? He wasn’t gonna push it any further than that. But then he saw her. And they talked. And she was beautiful, engaging, witty, and did he mention blistering hot? So he followed back to her house. And now they were kissing, hugging, holding, she had her hand on his joint, and it was all good, and out of nowhere, he was thinking, but I really want to eat my sandwich.

See? That’s something, but it’s just not good enough, it’s a starter. A mildly interesting little tidbit of a non-story that 99% likelihood will never become anything. It’s a salad with potential to turn into a seafood buffet, but it doesn’t finish, it doesn’t middle, it’s a kicker on the field looking at those goal posts and thinking, yeah? So? Fuck this. Plus it’s a bastardized seinfeld ripoff. Not completely, but partly pirated. But what isn’t pirated. What isn’t stolen and transversed for the next party’s usage to hopefully transmogrify into a new idiom? I mean I guess you could go on and on about Johnny's obsession with the sandwich, to the point where he's walking down the street getting attacked by phantom salami slices, or poisoning his mother with arsenic cuz he thinks she's a giant jar of vinegar, i mean, yeah, there's lots of possible outs, or ins, or overs, hey, why not have Johnny dress up like a giant sandwich and fight crime along the rooftops of Toledo, Ohio?

Ten minutes to cal usc. My time is up. You’ve been, um, you’re not there, are you? Okey doke. Aloha.