A Writing Game
“A hotbed of dire farce.” Sometimes, there is no other reason to string words together than that you just want to see them interact.
You write them, and you look at them. No, it still makes no sense, this grouping of incongruous words, but it might be the start of something larger. You pursue it. From experience, you already know it can only go one of two ways: a surprise success or that far more possible alternative. You go forward anyway, because even though the chances are slim, it is much better to try than to do something else. Plus, you have nothing better going on now, and you do want to write. (The problem just now is you don’t really have anything to say.)
I lean back. I read this over and over. It certainly sounds familiar. I want to move on and make this happen. But having nothing to write about is a situation that comes from no practice — from not spending the time over the past weeks because I happened to have been engrossed with other things.
Hark! I hear a tingling sound from outside. It is gone as soon as it arrives, and I can’t identify it. I am sitting here pulling at anything for a proper idea. What can such an exterior audial invasion do for me? I am reaching for anything. Then, the words I started this with come back to me. They can be used to finish this tiny piece of verbiage so that I can move on already with my day. I am rolling their special interrelationships in my thoughts and getting nothing. A frame would have wrapped this up tidily as I unravel what is this hotbed of dire farce. But I can’t do such a thing, and it is better now to just end it on anything.