A Neat Little Packages That Implies the World

In life, you can be three things: The magician, the audience, or the trick.

The magician knows it all, does, it all, says it all. It is magic, but not mystery.

The audience sees it all, hears it all, but knows nothing. The pleasure lay in ignorance.

The trick listens, the trick responds, the trick works. It is in limbo, with aspects of both the audience and the magician. It knows a little, but can’t do much. It sees a little, but can’t see all. There is magic in it as an instrument and awe from it at what it can do.

The process of writing has these elements: the magician, the audience, the trick.

There is someone who knows all, does all, and says all. There are people who see all, hear all and know nothing. And there is always, most vitally, someone who knows a little, but can’t do much, sees a little, but can’t see all, and is an instrument and a tool in awe of its own uses. That someone would be the trick-better known as the author.

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Doran’s Talent

First order of business: The office has changed its name, but I am keeping my desk.

Don’t touch it. The desk is mine.

Second order of business, as promised, this week’s post is Part Two of a two part series on the effects of inspiration (or lack of it) on writing. Last week’s piece was an example of poetry written through inspiration. Today’s piece is an example of prose written without it.

This story was written for a competition and I went into it grumbling and arguing with myself, convinced I could make nothing of the writing prompt I was given. When I began, the first few lines I wrote were angry ones, petulant ones; they were the writing equivalent of throwing a fit. But as I stubbornly continued to write, even through the fit, I began to find satisfaction in creating it.

I apologize for it being so long, I understand what time means in the digital world. However, I wished to present you with what amounts to the director’s cut, what it was before I had to edit it down to meet the terms of the prompt.

Ladies and gentlemen, for your entirely objective and scientific (not really) reading pleasure: a piece born without inspiration…

Doran’s Talent

He rolled up his sleeves andĀ dipped his arms into a cardboard box of hardback books, his eyes flashing to a 19th century painting titled “The Witch’s Daughter” inset into one of the covers

It was Samhuinn-an important night for his family-but he wasn’t going to join the festivities. He was busy, he told himself, unpacking in his new apartment. He had a lot of work to do and there was no way he could go to the festival now, especially after he said no. Especially after the conversation he had with his great aunt on the phone…

She had told him not to worry, that even though Colleen was coming to town and bringing her coven of dozens along with her, he was still needed. He was still missed. And what about what he needed and would miss, she asked? He had planned to come before Colleen announced her visit…

But no-he was busy. He had a lot to do…This is what he told himself to drown out the October wind and everything it said to him louder than his own thoughts or his Aunt’s words. And it was saying it louder and louder as the hours progressed.

Doran dropped the stack of books on his desk and leaned with his fists on either side of them. If he was going to get through the night, he was going to have to stop thinking about the festival. And he had to stop listening to the wind.

He took a deep breath and lightly tapped one of the crystal orbs that sat supported by candlesticks and bookends all around his desk to ground him. While he had never shown any talent for scrying, he had an attraction to the tools. He found comfort in the glowing orbs and their shining surfaces, liked how the world looked through them and how light slid over them. It was a comfort to have them on his desk in this town where he had no family and where he was the only one to hear the wind call.

Doran sat down in his squeaky leather swivel chair and opened the first book on the stack he had removed from the box, planning to bury his mind in the antique type and engravings, but the words and pictures couldn’t penetrate the constant murmur that was the wind. Stubbornly, he kept staring at the book, his leg bobbing up and down with nervous energy like a needle on a sewing machine as he tried to ignore the wind.

He clapped the book shut. It was no use.

The wind hushed and whispered like a hundred barely audible radios all around him.

Doran raised his eyes and tried changing his focus to the newest addition to his collection of shining orbs. It was a clock captured in glass and suspended from a delicate chain, the whirring and twisting of its gears magnified and warped by their housing and he wondered: does light bend time?

Thankful for the distraction, he let the thought roll through his mind: Does light bend time…does light bend time…does light bend time…

“IT’S TIME.”

The October wind cut right through his thoughts, blowing in his room under his front door and raking through his hair with cold, incorporeal fingers.

He closed his eyes and let his head drop back on his chair. He knew it was time, yes, of course he knew it. But he wasn’t coming, couldn’t face his great aunt’s sister and her swooning followers appropriating his family’s tiny, heartfelt festival with their superficial revelries and showy outfits. He couldn’t do it…

“IT’S TIME.”

The smell of the cold in the breeze tugged at his heart and he sighed, turning his head to the door as if he expected the wind to step in. For a while, the only sound was the ticking of Doran’s sphere-clock counting the seconds he stared into the invisible air.

Doran stood and crossed the room.

The French doors to his narrow balcony rattled as he lifted the latch and stepped out, the light of a waning quarter moon pouring over him. The wind pushed at his back, rushing at him through his room because the wind knew what was next.

Doran lifted one foot and then the other up to the inch-wide metal banister around his balcony and stood on top of it. The metal pressed through his shoes and into the place where his heels ended and arches began; It was all that supported him as he balanced a hundred feet above earth, the city even further below him, spread out in a field of star-like orange lights in the valley.

“Ooo, it’s time,” the wind whispered as it rushed past him into the night, drawing part of the breath from his lungs as it went.

From his perch, Doran looked once more at the city with the eyes of man obeying the rules of science. He withdrew his hands from his waistcoat pockets, letting them fall to his sides. He closed his eyes and exhaled pointing his chin sky-ward. HeĀ forgot everything about his body as the air rushed past his ears and let himself remember what it was to be part of the October wind.

The tips of his toes left the railing last as he rose towards the moon.

So, fellow pseudo-scientists, I turn to you. At the end of our first experiment, how does it measure up? Is the absence of inspiration tangible? Or are the results inconclusive?

In lieu of an answer, I say we strip off our goggles, turn on the black lights, throw on some Bach, and watch the specimens glow.