More from the Vault of Forgotten File Folders. This time, I present to you the original introduction to the first full novel I ever wrote, which was the inspiration for the novel that I recently completed which I’m sending out to agents now. I’ve written about the process here. This is nothing like the book that I’m currently shopping around now — the only similarity is the main character’s name. This was from a naive writer who wasn’t ready to write the truth, so the tone of this is quite dark. Re-reading it now, I have to admit, I quite like it. Reminds me of my angsty 19 year old self.
My hand raises and I begin to sketch out my aggressions.
Soft blue streaks.
Blood-red brush strokes.
Across the stark white sketch book, the dark black lines press so deeply into the page that it creates scars that had been there for years, opening up old wounds that could no longer be patched with bandaids; the lines that had only gotten deeper as each year passed were now blurred beyond recognition, stained red with tainted indiscretions. The white face lurches backward in pain and shock, the veins in his neck pop violently off of the page.
My arms stretch out; my hand cramps from drawing so intensely. My tears stain the page. The tear marks drip down and smudge in the parts of his face that were bruised and battered.
And in the corner of the page, there she was; faceless.
I had all these plans, these dreams, these goals, and then life kicked in over-drive, and my own natural drives gave out. My sex-drive slowed down, my imagination was put on the back burner in a life that grew seemingly more complicated, and somewhere along the way I forgot about my dreams.
I’ve left my canvas blank for far too long.
Full moon beams stream through an open window. I stand up straight, arch my back, and crack my knuckles. Icy air whips past me, ushering in frozen flakes that land near my feet and melt into small puddles.
I leave it open — the chill makes me feel alive — as I sketch out my past, present, and possibilities.
Everything that’s happened all seems to be strung together, so much so that the last eight months seem like one long, breathless run-on sentence. So much has happened that everything is jumbled together in a splotchy swirl of lifeless earth tones made by a five year old who fell asleep mid-fingerpaint.
Everything has brought me here. Not that I’m sure where here is.
How did I become this person that I barely recognize? How could I let this happen?
From my window, I notice a fallen lamppost, belly-up, covered in ice. The rim of the overturned lamppost was coated with shards of ice, clumped like sticky salt around the rim of a margarita glass. Icicles dribbled down the sides, distorting its shape like a monochromatic kaleidoscope.
No matter how I look at it, the image is still the same.