I decided to reconsider my priorities a bit. I started by putting my nascent literary career in brackets, in order to watch television all day. I note the ideas that come on slips of paper telling me that I write the day when I get back to work, if indeed that day comes. Most of the time I lose these pieces of paper. I found
one this morning at the foot of the sofa on which I slept. I recognized my handwriting, even though I had no recollection of when I could write it. Probably after waking with a start. The paper said "Telling something with Apache." I crumpled up and thrown in the trash.
It's late now and the day passed quietly. Television broadcast a series on Australian which my friends and I have focused, in part because our English is a little rusty.
Each of us watching the time until the evening news. Although it is unnecessary, and that the French civil war seems to be excluded from international affairs, we look now log every night. Xavier Vincent and secretly watch him also to ensure that the world is doing well and that their girlfriends gone abroad are not victims of an earthquake or a meteor shower.
watch Vincent ring, and Xavier zap on a newscast. We look at the headlines to make sure that the world still exists, and that France, it no longer exists. We are changing several times to match the information chain.
-Tomorrow I'll try to get a DVD player, we learned Vincent.
Xavier and I acquiesce with a satisfied air. The days become rather boring these days. We stopped the fencing lessons, and my friend made my mouth more or less since I decided to put an end to my vocation as a writer-warrior sharply. "To do what?" Me "he asked coldly.
An image attracts the attention of Vincent, and takes the remote from the hands of Xavier to increase sound. The voice of a Japanese commentator fills the room, and we are not very useful. On screen, we see a demonstration of what we first for naturists. Then I understand what stopped the eye of Vincent: A man walks naked too, at the head of the crowd, and I recognize the revolutionary Sancho.
I then noticed that the scene takes place in Paris, and all the people who parade naked more or less armed. Some wear scarves on their faces, and other brandishing pistols in the air while walking the pelvis forward. Laughter Japanese presenter really does not tell us about the purpose of the event.
Xavier gives a nudge to Vincent, and showed him a corner of the screen. The mustachioed squints as if it compensates its myopia, and near television to see better. The forefront of revolutionary intimacy in the air like the others, is Irving Rutherford. He walks proudly a gun in his hand, and we are immediately stunned by a detail.
My friends back at me with wide eyes. Xavier has the same open-mouthed, and stutters, unable to speak. I swear that Vincent is going to cry.
-He has no tattoos, "I said as if it were a revelation.
They dissect me mentally, as if I met for the first time. I hate this situation. I would be an intellectual, and I am constantly making efforts to fight against stupidity. I really do not want to expound on some subjects are severely lacking in depth.
-Man, Xavier appeals to me, have you seen the size of this thing? It is monstrous!
I rub my face nervously. I curl up on myself, like I was trying to disappear between two sofa cushions. There is civil war in Paris, I have an evil twin, and I can not write. These are not topics of conversation are missing.
Xavier puts his hand on my shoulder, and represses a smile to tint the moment of gravity. Vincent embarks a risky argument about the depth of our friendship, and the need to say everything.
-Seriously dude. Tell us just "Smaller" or "like".
This novel I want to write the story of a man who discovers the cure against cancer. This is an extraordinary character, and plot a slow pace to better highlight the character of the hero to face events.
When he becomes famous, and people began to send him thousands of letters of thanks, he glows. He was invited to dinner the biggest heads of state, and Hollywood. At one point, Britney Spears healed of breast cancer, and falls in love with her. He loses a little crazy. He gets to live in somewhat inconsistent, and does not deal with Britney respects it deserves.
He is so weird starts to fall into line: He bought a big car and adopt an Ethiopian child, he named Leonard, like his father. Then he realizes he is cheated by the big pharmaceutical companies who market his remedy at exorbitant prices, and that only the rich can afford.
At the end of the book, he donated his fortune to charity, and attempts to save her relationship with Britney. The death of Leonardo, ironically won by AIDS, the closer.
I will not write this novel, because the pace is really too slow, because basically I do not know myself where I am coming from.
This other novel that I write is a fantasy novel. One day a bear turns into a man, and he must learn to live with us. He found work as a beekeeper, bought a house and started a family. People like him even if his manners are a bit frustrated. Sometimes his eyes were melancholy burden when he look back to the mountains where he grew up.
In such moments, he spent a night in the woods to perk up.
In the end, he died as a man, but the epitaph on his tomb reminds us that he has never really been comfortable with his condition.
I would not write this novel. It is too personal, and incredibly pretentious.
The last novel I would want to write better comics. He speaks of an imaginary city ruled by elves. The city previously belonged to the orcs, and they found themselves enslaved. Elves are a people wise and successful: They build roads and schools. We
follow a young orc hero, who will join the revolt of his people against the invader. By a few well-chosen scenes, the comic will teach us that we should not judge by appearances: Those elves orcs voluntarily keep down the social ladder, by making them believe they can climb . It's a social satire, and I have not found the end.
But I will not write this story either, because I can not draw.
I finished a novel last night. These are the adventures of the knight, Paxton Fettel, who fights against the goblins. The thread of the story is somewhat disjointed, and the fight scenes a little repetitive, but otherwise okay.
I finished the novel last night because there was really nothing on TV, and I was not far from the end. I made a departure from my sabbatical, and I have been through the saga of Paxton.
Now I'm fried on. The sun rises outside, and announces a hot day like never before. I dumped the stocks of ink and paper of Vincent, and I printed my book, before connecting briefly with staples. I did not even proofread. I would bet that some pages are not in the correct order.
My eyes do not stand out the object while I shave, so I come to cut me. I'm away and empty. I wrote a second novel.
I have the satisfaction of knowing that for some time, post-it notes will cease to pile up during the night. I'll finally have time to learn to draw.
I put the razor and my face flushes. The mirror seems to ask me if I really think my plan will work. It reflects my tattoos as evidence of my own existence, and I put my hand on the scar round bar one of them by changing its meaning. I put on underpants, slips and me groping in Xavier's room so as not to wake up. My friend, who usually has sleep heavy and thunderous snoring, sleep out instantly.
"What do you do? wonder there.
"I wanted to tell you ...
I think about my answer, because basically I did not tell him. I walk to the closet and grabs a suit, shirt and shoes.
-Smallest, I say because it's the first thing that comes to mind.
-Little?
-No "small". Just smaller.
Xavier falls asleep with a wry smile on his lips, and I realize that for once he did not understand anything. I leave the room and dress in the lounge.
I decide not to return to look in the mirror, because I could renounce my resolution. I am convinced that I now resembles nothing so much as Irving Rutherford.
I catch my novel, as if to reassure me. I took to the streets with, perhaps thinking out armed. But in truth I just need to keep with me to give me courage.
A group of young revolutionaries going a little further along the boulevard. They will bare torsos, and are designed for war paint on his face. It reminds me of the Apaches.
I take a deep breath, and go to their meeting. I try to adopt a self-confident, and the novel that I lug around with me help me a bit. I wonder how Irving made to wear designer suits in summer. No sooner have I taken a few steps to the sun than I already dripping with sweat.
Everything is clear, it's just me who has trouble understanding some things. I'll make an effort, and each day will be gold.
Note: Remember the ideas of novels
Soon: Vincent is a voyeur
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