It's all in the finish. Whether you're writing a story, building an armoire, or playing a game of chess, what matters most is the finish. You can write a story snarled with seeming contradictions, totally discombobulated, but if you tie it all together with a strong finish, it may well be astounding. You can build your armoire hurriedly, and of the cheapest wood, but if you finish it just right you may very well dazzle with your new piece. And if your opponent manages to overlook your lackluster opening game, and underestimates you during the slow middle, it may very well be your genius finishing moves which snag you the win.
The middle: whether it's a novel, a cross-country road trip, or life, the middle is nothing more than a series of events designed to get you from the initial exciting event to the final.
BIRTH
____________a
__________________series
_____________________________of
____________________________________events
_______________________________________________DEATH
Just like that. See? You've got birth: everybody does it, and there's not really a unique way of doing it. Sure you can be a twin or a clone or whatever, but the general gist is the same. Then you've got your series-of-events: again, typical. You live your life putting together a puzzle, thinking you can make a difference, collecting. Each life is designed in such a fashion so as to convince the participant that they are living their life their way. Uniquely. Ha. Finally, you've got death: this is really the showpiece. The crowning stroke. The chef-d'oeuvre. This is the moment when the participant takes her bow, is showered with praise, truly appreciated, and exits stage right.
You can write a blog post which goes on and on, saying nothing, totally formulaic, but if you end it with a bang it can be made into a real gem. It's all in the finish, after all - and I've got nothin'.
Disgorged by: Trite R, 2:07 PM | link | 0 comments
Thursday, August 18, 2005
not everything needs a title dammit
__________ten years ago
Flight of fancy. Dipping, diving, rampaging through the woods. Flying on our feet. I soar over the broken root of an ancient tree, swoop beneath its tangle of branches, and look back to make sure that you did the same. I see you, hear you, laughing, and I keep on running. We're not even touching the ground now. An eruption of cracking twigs, rustling leaves, clattering rocks. Us, thrashing through the forest.
__________five years ago
Awake in the furnace of a tent, all aglow with the morning mountain sun. It's different up here, you say. And I say it, too, just repeating what you said because there's no better way to say it. Nothing to add. It really is different up here. My mind turns to the fire from the night before: flames licking the sky, a shower of orange sparks - even now I smell the smoke clinging to my skin.
__________one year ago
Lost in a southern town, all truck stops, cops with mirrored shades, and gophers. There's sand in my shoes. I look over at you, recognising that squirm. You've got sand in your pants. Where will we go from here?, you ask. I tell you we'll work our way north, head up towards the Great Lakes. There's good fishing up there. Someday we'll grow up, right? Lead adult lives? You're staring blankly at the horizon. Staring at nothing. Flat all around. No, I say, we'll never do that.
__________yesterday
A Lover's Discourse? Got it. Discipline & Punish? Got it. You're down another isle. I hear you, but I don't see you. Hey, you say, maybe we should bring some of our books in, you know, to trade or whatever. I stick my head around the corner, and I'm greeted by your grinning face. I don't even have to say it. Just screwing with you. Come on, let's go grab a coffee.
__________today
Flight of fancy. Dipping, diving, rampaging through the streets. Flying on our feet. I soar over the uneven corner of a sidewalk slab, swoop beneath the collapsed awning of a fruit market, and look back to make sure that you did the same. I see you, hear you, laughing, and I keep on running. We're not even touching the ground now. An eruption of crushed pop cans, rustling newspapers, and flapping pigeons. Us, thrashing through the city.
__________tomorrow
It'll come.
Be patient-
we'll wait
together.
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