Flibbertigibbet

Stranger to Fiction

Back in college, I used to write a little bit. Like art writing, not nonfiction writing. Mostly idiotic poems, but I did take a playwriting class and a creative writing class as part of my curriculum. So, I did write some short stories.

So, I've been thinking for a while that I should like to take up the quill again and pen some fiction.

This is not a decision a person should make lightly.

I'd LIKE to write a novel, but I am ill-equipped for it in terms of writing skill. So, I want to start on some short stories.

I can't think of any short stories to write!

So, I'm re-reading The Art of Fiction by Ayn Rand to try to jog my creative juices. But I have to say, this is going to be hard work.

I should write a story about the fat people who are checking out the vacant apartment across the street. They seemed to take note of the skinny white dude parading around in his underwear a little bit ago and have since taken to lumbering from room to room without apparent purpose. Wait. They've all taken a seat on some unseen furniture listening to the male talk and watch him gesture laconically about what I can only guess is a border or a window frame.

One of the larger females is up and measuring a doorway. She's going about it all the wrong way.

Oh well. They're interesting characters, I guess, if I want to write about people with low aspirations, simplistic ideas, and limited views of life. Although I might complain that their appearance is uninspired, they do have better windows than I do and a MUCH bigger apartment. I guess they need it, though, since there are four or five of them thudding against the ceiling of the dance studio on the floor below.

I don't really like the idea of these fatties watching me in my underwear. I didn't mind the hot chicks who waved to me, but these are just fat, ugly people who are probably less titilated or inspired by the view than inappropriately amused.

It's official. I hate the new across-the-street neighbors. Why couldn't the hot guy move across the hall so I could get a better view? This is a family of people who make bad decisions.

Can you imagine an entire book of short stories about their lives? It would be a comedy. I might be good at writing comedy, but I would much rather write about adventures. Detective stories, spy stories, stories about really pretty, happy people falling in love with other really happy, people who might happen to belong to the wrong street gang or Veronese family minus suicide plots.

One of the large female fatties seems to be entranced. She's just leaning against the window watching the traffic on the street or watching me watch her.

I seriously want to go over and tell them to stop eating so much food and get some exercise. They're the kind of fat that is grotesque and completely unacceptable. And it's a whole family. Three females and a male, I've counted so far. Even the young female is overweight.

The cute lady upstairs from them is home now and she's cooking supper, I think.

I could write stories about all the people in the building across the street! I'm sure that's totally been done, but I'll bet those stories sucked and didn't have any plot.