The Opening Line

This is a piece I presented at the 2014 Flash Fiction Night at the Hoover Public Library.

 

It probably doesn't make a lot of sense simply reading it, because I wrote it specifically to be 'performed'. If you like, you can always visit The Opening Line at Youtube.com to witness my debut reading of it.

 

 

 

 

The Opening Line

 

 

 

It was turning out to be one of those days as any day is prone to being but this day was like no other what with it being different.

 

The kingdom of Prell with its cities that dwell in the valleys of yon with their highspenders on and the treasonous sheen of oh my God what am I doing?

 

A shot rang out. Nobody cared. Well there’s my Hemmingway.

 

See, this is the paradox of the blank page. Endlessly inviting, full of possibilities yet providing absolutely no guidance in getting started. And writer’s block isn’t a block, like an obstacle such as a plot hole or a continuity error. No. Writer’s block is your car at five in the morning in the middle of January that just refuses to get started. I should have been writing that down.

 

In fact you’d wonder why anybody even bothers writing. Unless you have the misfortune of being a writer. Then you know. It’s your muse.

 

A muse is supposed to inspire. That’s her job. It’s what she’s supposed to do. That’s not what she does. A muse nags.

 

To wit:

 

Pen in hand. On the paper. And the opening line. Go. Go ahead. Start writing. Just move the pen and let it flow. Let the words come. Small steps. One letter, then the next. Just move the- move the pen moron. Draw a- make a mark. On the page. Draw a line. Draw anything. Write a letter of the alphabet. Dear, are you sure the pen is in the correct hand?

 

Paraphrasing.

 

What she doesn’t seem to realize is she’s not the only voice in your head. Now we all hear voices that we sometimes respond to; our conscience, our ego, our imaginary talk show interviewer. And if you’re a writer, you have an ensemble of stock characters all trying on different nuances for various story arcs and dialogue exchanges which usually play out when somebody from the real world is asking you a reasonably pertinent question like: What do you want for dinner? Or why were you driving on the wrong side of the interstate?

 

I’m not talking about those voices. I’m talking about bane of every writer’s mental stability, the one that gets summoned the moment that pen moves. Your inner critic.

 

Okay, let’s see what’s going on here. "I’ve got nothing". So this is your autobiography.

 

No it’s not. I’m just kind of clearing my throat here.

 

Because for the opening line it’s not original.

 

Yeah I get that. I’m having a little trouble getting the creativity flowing. Just trying to jog it.

 

It would sound better as 'I have nothing'.

 

See, again that doesn’t matter because that isn’t the start of the story. That’s just me writing something to tap the well.

 

'I have nothing' carries more despondency.

 

Do you want me to change it I have nothing?

 

If you have no qualms about compromising your thoughts. 'I’ve got nothing' sounds colloquial.

 

It means the same- why am I talking to you? This is officially your first obstacle, remembering that you’re not writing for your inner critic. You’re writing for your inner reader. And that leads you to your second obstacle.

 

I don’t get it.

 

Well, there’s nothing to get yet.

 

Like, are you literally in possession of nothing?

 

No, I haven’t started writing yet.

 

But you wrote 'I’ve got nothing'.

 

Just ignore that. It’s not important.

 

Oh, that could have been interesting.

 

You know you’re a writer when you’re one internal blowup away from full on schizophrenia. Oh look who’s back.

 

Dear, perhaps having nothing IS the story.

 

The muse finally pulls through. Okay, we’re off.

 

What of the dog and butterfly that they should ever be

 

Does the dog die?

 

What?

 

The dog always dies.

 

Everyone dies.

 

But do we have to hear about it in every story or song?

 

Mortality defines humanity. And literature like any art form reflects that sense of humanity. Therefore it wouldn’t be a proper story without the death of something.

 

That doesn’t mean every story has to involve death.

 

No but to be poignant it has to involve the death of something. You’ve introduced two characters. It’s logical to assume that one will die before you finish the story.

 

If I finish the story...

 

I don’t see why anything has to die.

 

It doesn’t matter if you see the why of it. The fact remains that everything does indeed die of its own accord.

 

But do we have to be reminded of it every time we listen to a folk song?

 

I’m reminded of it because we listen to folk songs.

 

Why is it writers feel like they have to indulge this sociopathic impulse to create a poor innocent animal that never hurt anyone only to murder it a few minutes later for the sake of an emotional punctuation.

 

The dog doesn’t die!

 

Does the butterfly die? Is the dog going to kill it?

 

Now that’s actually more fitting. The weak get crushed by an unstoppable juggernaut. A lesson in the acceptance of amorality.

 

Look. You’re turning this simple sentence fragment into a Sophoclean tragedy. Nobody is going to die. The dog doesn’t die. The butterfly doesn’t die. Innocent bystanders don’t get crushed, mauled, eaten or cryogenically frozen. What?

 

Is the dog going to try to fly with the butterfly and be heartbroken when it can’t?

 

 

Oh, that’s much better. Loneliness is presented as a metaphor for death.

 

I still don’t want to hear it. It’s too sad.

 

The dog would see the butterfly flapping its wings in the air above him and finds it beautiful. And when the butterfly comes a little too close, the dog holds it down with his paw thinking that he would own it. But then he realizes that it was the butterfly’s freedom that he found beautiful, so he lets it go.

 

And then what happens?

 

Nothing. That’s the whole story.

 

Oh. Well that’s actually quite charming. I would love to have heard it.