While sitting at a park cafe outside of Chicago on the Great Lake of Michigan, I met a possibly Turkish man eating an apple delivered to him in bag labeled as imported from Aragon, Spain. I was trying to write the latest best next great American novel, but had my head in hands over an increasingly empty coffee cup, the kind of tall cardboard and wax-lined with more paper to handle than would napkins carry and serve as coaster.
>What are you writing?
An accent troubling and fake, distant from the admixture of old mobster accent and flyover suburbs states accent that rules the region with iron phobia.
<Nothing at the moment.
>Do you see this apple, it comes from Spain, me they have told this, it is making for a time the taste, and your character, needs to feel emotions in the passing wind, in the busy streets our hearts beat for the rhythm, feet following feet, how far would he get with no soul?
<I'm not sure what you mean.
>Shoes have souls, people have souls, we can only go as far as those are strong.
<What about the emotion I mean.
>The apple is bitter, hunger I am to eat. The apple is sweet, everyone eats the tree, my emotion plant a tree or forget the tree or dream of fruit, it is not always a choice to eat one or the other.
<You mean, the impossible choice.
>I mean...impossible choice yes, but very real choices, what is you that thinks for the character this one? Why does he feel, or still, why does making choice fill his mind, it says a lot about him I think this yes.
He finishes his apple without leaving even seeds and washes it with a final sip of coffee, takes his folded newspaper and stands, walks to the kiosk and orders another coffee, returns to the table as I furiously write everything about the backstory and moral upbringing I can remember from the dark side of my mind. He returns to his chair, sitting his lite jacket reveals a weapon and he takes sunglasses out and wears them, then hides it and reads the paper with his sunglasses on.
<How will he be when something is unexpected or unwanted?
>You will know when character knows.
I wrote for ten minutes and felt awkward when the ink ran out, then the man stood and walked across the open area of concrete squares and used his weapon on a man, my eyes were ringing, my ears were drowned in adrenaline, and speckles of blood covered the back of my hand and my character study journal. He took something from him and without time was between me and the sun, a shadowy stranger wiping his hands.
>Do not tell them my face, yes?
<How did you know it was time to do that, he sat there all day?
>Do not describe his face, describe what he is knowing, and then character maybe seem human.
The man with no swagger or tire walked to a parked cab that fled extra quickly into a river of taxis. A new story begins with a new first chapter.
-/mjbanks
>What are you writing?
An accent troubling and fake, distant from the admixture of old mobster accent and flyover suburbs states accent that rules the region with iron phobia.
<Nothing at the moment.
>Do you see this apple, it comes from Spain, me they have told this, it is making for a time the taste, and your character, needs to feel emotions in the passing wind, in the busy streets our hearts beat for the rhythm, feet following feet, how far would he get with no soul?
<I'm not sure what you mean.
>Shoes have souls, people have souls, we can only go as far as those are strong.
<What about the emotion I mean.
>The apple is bitter, hunger I am to eat. The apple is sweet, everyone eats the tree, my emotion plant a tree or forget the tree or dream of fruit, it is not always a choice to eat one or the other.
<You mean, the impossible choice.
>I mean...impossible choice yes, but very real choices, what is you that thinks for the character this one? Why does he feel, or still, why does making choice fill his mind, it says a lot about him I think this yes.
He finishes his apple without leaving even seeds and washes it with a final sip of coffee, takes his folded newspaper and stands, walks to the kiosk and orders another coffee, returns to the table as I furiously write everything about the backstory and moral upbringing I can remember from the dark side of my mind. He returns to his chair, sitting his lite jacket reveals a weapon and he takes sunglasses out and wears them, then hides it and reads the paper with his sunglasses on.
<How will he be when something is unexpected or unwanted?
>You will know when character knows.
I wrote for ten minutes and felt awkward when the ink ran out, then the man stood and walked across the open area of concrete squares and used his weapon on a man, my eyes were ringing, my ears were drowned in adrenaline, and speckles of blood covered the back of my hand and my character study journal. He took something from him and without time was between me and the sun, a shadowy stranger wiping his hands.
>Do not tell them my face, yes?
<How did you know it was time to do that, he sat there all day?
>Do not describe his face, describe what he is knowing, and then character maybe seem human.
The man with no swagger or tire walked to a parked cab that fled extra quickly into a river of taxis. A new story begins with a new first chapter.
-/mjbanks