Current mood:	excited
Current music:	"Wonder Wall" - Oasis

RE: passage excised from short-story, "L'estranger dans le comic" (c)
Because I'm a prospective scrivener-boy, I felt it only necessary to insert into these developing and meandering LiveJournal mutterings an actual example of my writing. But because, right now, I can't necessarily claim to be in the appropriate creative headspace to forge a new example of near-literary lunacy, ahem, I've trawled through past self-reflexive weirdness that I've composed in the most recent past, and came across this, a short-story that I transferred to graphic novella format for first-year uni. It's about a guy. With writer's block. Similarity ends there. Promise. Haha.

"Wellie Tonic considered the pen in his hand. It wasn't often he'd gain an insight into the nihilistic, blackly spiralling world of writer's block, but he simply couldn't contrive a single further word to put on the page. That was the problem, he mused, always attempting to flesh out a characterisation that really wasn't conducive to the premise of the story whatsoever. Attempting to make he or she idiosyncratic. Appealing. Accessible. Fucking cool. If you sat idly, numbly persuading your hand to make meaningless parabolas on the page, eventually you'd just start writing in fragments.
'Okay,' he murmured, gingerly biting on his lower lip, 'What do I want to say? I want...'
It was fortunate for Wellie that the writing process was not at all vaguely reminiscent of, say, discussing potential female partners with his mother. Wellie loathed the discussing of potential female partners with his mother, if only because it always seemingly meant that his entire Tuesday was occupied with the inane chattering from a woman who retrospectively knew as much about the appealing members of her gender as Galileo knew about pornographic websites. 'What do you want, then, Wellie?' she'd say. 'It seems to me that you're just hoping for some sort of superwoman, as if reality is anything like that trifle of a comic book of yours.' This sort of thing was mundane routine for Wellie, and he'd grown rather accustomed to his mother entreaty his search for Miss Right with an errant slap across the forehead. Indeed, even hearing his mother refer to his comic book as a "trifle" was something he had -- through much traumatic suppression -- accepted. However, when his mother had resorted to adding the phrase "tut-tut" to her usual muckraking critique of Wellie's life, he'd cracked.
He hadn't left the womb of his apartment now for three weeks. He'd even left the phone off the hook and a type of fungi had began to spawn on the receiver. Last night, before falling into a fitful sleep, he felt as though the walls around him were billowing.
He needed coffee. Ah, yes! Of course. Coffee. Always helped the scribing process. Mocha? Decaf? Short white? Long black? Herbal? Cappuccino? The list of possibilities were endless; in total disharmony with Wellie's inventory of potential female girlfriends.
He knew what he had to do. Make himself a sandwich and watch some TV. The Elixir of inspired creativity."

There's more, of course, but perhaps, before people begin to cynically suggest any wrongful autobiographical motifs used here, tee hee, I'll profess to you all my overwhelming sincerity, and what's more, say: YAY! MY DARLING RETURNS WEDNESDAY!

Haha. God, I love her. I hope there's a goat-related play being enacted out somewhere in this forsaken city...