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Dear diary,
Today was one of the worst...er... craziest days I could've imagined, but I guess it kind of worked out in the end. It all started when I slept through my alarm clock this morning, which of course, made me late, and I started my day off in a rush. I quickly showered and grabbed something to eat as I ran out to my plumbing van. I knew I would be late for Mrs. K's job, but I hoped she would understand, I mean her son and I go way back. I tried to start the van only to realize that I had left the dome light on overnight and the battery had died. My brother had already gone for the day, so I had to head off on foot to buy a new battery. I was already late, so I didn't rush. I wanted to enjoy the beautiful day and try to cool down after having such a rough start to my morning. I was only a few blocks from the store when I heard a woman yelling for help. I knew this would delay me even more, but I could not leave a damsel in distress. I turned and ran as fast as I could towards the sound. I could still hear the woman calling for help, but she always seemed to be just around the next corner, so I ran faster. Whatever was happening, we are moving quickly towards the old industrial part of town. I twisted and turned in the maze of industrial complexes until I finally shot around the corner just in time to see some huge beast pulling the most beautiful blond-haired woman I've ever seen into a giant warehouse.
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On Writing
I sit here staring at a blank page, unable to decide if it is friend or foe. We have met on the battlefield many a time before, and each time, one or both of us came away beaten, bloodied, and changed; sometimes for the better sometimes not. It is an odd adversarial arraignment that we have. All at once supportive and destructive, a force beyond anything one could imagine. Each day I hear the blank page calling to me with its siren song, and each day I fall into its embrace, only to lose myself; sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours, it depends on what my characters have in store for me; how long I can hold out in the battle against the dreaded blank page. I can hear them calling to me from the other side. Their cries of excitement and support spur me on. They need me just as much as I need them; I need to tell their story, and they need it to be told. The blank page stares at me, mocking me, daring me to deface it. It knows that the first few marks, strokes of the pen, punch of the keys are the hardest. As I stare into its beautiful and terrifying depths, I realize just how pristine it is. It is clean, virgin, with the potential to be anything, yet now in my hands, I realize it’s potential has been greatly diminished. In the right hands, it could have been immortalized. It could have held the truths of a religious document, a nation’s declaration, or a love letter from a brave soldier to his love, far overseas, kept as a lifeline of hope around the world. Instead, it now sits on my desk, staring up at me, casting seeds of doubt into my mind. |
AuthorTravis J. Croken Archives
August 2020
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