Sunday, March 29, 2009

Sunday 11:17 P.M.

Why does the writer need to drink? To slow his chattering mind enough so he can listen? So he could get past shyness and interact with enough people so he could know characters? To live a life of plot? Something like that. Whatever the reason, he was determined to be a great writer.

"Scotch on the rocks, and keep them coming."

The bartender smirked. He saw that. Observation! Screw you pal. Keep it up and I'll destroy you in a great portrayal of a superior bartender. I'll write you a comeuppance for the ages. Better yet, I'll ignore you, and consign you to oblivion.

Wow. Scotch is expensive, and nasty!

Beer. He was a novelist. Not short stories. He shot pool.

"That shot is illegal! You forfeit the game!"

The argument got very shouty. Conflict. Characters. Assholes.


"You've got to leave."

"I've got to leave?"

"Yes. Please leave. I don't care. You've got to go."

"I'm going to consign you to oblivion!"

He found a party. Had a great talk with a great old character who liked to drink. Found a woman. The pure heart or the femme fetale? She didn't seem to want to talk. He talked. He followed her around the room. They made him leave.

Another party! College boys! What would he learn about learning? He threw up into a funnel. He fled them, covered in puke, pelted with beer cans. Jeered at like Christ. What a story! What symbolism!

He would write about drunks in a bar.

He would write about the homeless. He would write about Larry, who got them the bottle.

He conquered his aversion to scotch.

He was a writer.

--Dan Kilian

Another Wasted Tale

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