Writing Your Own Story

Welcome, Reader.

Prepared to do a little work? Don’t worry, it will feel just like reading a story, not writing one.

You probably think that I’m writing this, which you are reading. Well, I am, but not for long. Let me explain.

I have decoded the deep ur-language of the human brain. What does this mean? It means that if I speak certain syllables to you, or to any other human being on the planet, you or he or she will understand me in a basic, pre-cognitive, meta-existential way. Similarly, if I present certain symbols to you digitally, as I will do in a second, they will be transferred to the ur-center of your cerebrum via optic nerve, just as vocalizations would be sent there via your ears.

As an example:

Dog

You probably read [[dog]], but actually, I wrote the ur-symbols for “think of an animal” there. Look back. Still looks like [[dog]], right? You can’t see the command, only your brain’s response to it. Why you chose that particular animal, I couldn’t say. In tests, “dog” and “cat” seem to be the most popular choices, but if you chose “mole rat,” for example, don’t be concerned. Humans are wonderfully various.

So, ready to begin? I’m going to present you with the symbols for “write a story” and write a story you will, as long as you keep “reading.” Here we go.

Once upon a time, there was a family: father, mother, son, daughter. They all got along wonderfully. (Oh, wait. There has to be conflict.)

Once upon a time, there was a family: father, mother, son, daughter, all in conflict. (Nuts, “show, don’t tell.”)

Once upon a time, there was a family: father, mother, son, daughter. The father and mother were divorced, although still in love. (Nice touch!)

“Dad, why don’t you live at home anymore?” asked eight-year-old Sally… asked five-year-old Sally. (Write what you know! Annie is only five. What do I know about eight-year-olds?) (Good work cranking up the dialog!)

“Sally,” her dad said, “Daddy is very sick and he isn’t going to get better. Daddy thinks it is best if he declines and passes away in a cheap motel room, rather than at home, so you don’t have to watch it happen.”

“What does decline mean, Daddy?” (Props for getting a serious disease in there.)

Roger (the daddy) and Mary (the mommy) meet for drinks at their favorite bar and Mary, wearing a tight sweater and short short skirt, arches her back and crosses her long legs on her bar stool, thrusting out her large

OK. Let’s take a break. How is your story going? I forgot to mention, try not to think while you’re “reading.” Your thoughts will show up in your story in parentheses. Don’t hold back. Nobody is going to read this story but you! Everyone reading my “story” here is writing their own, just like you. Perhaps the subject matter you choose will give you a little insight into your inner psyche.

Let’s continue:

(Hmm. Where was I? Why am I even doing this? Is it almost over?) Daddy wasn’t all that sick. I mean, he’s going to get a lot sicker and have a death scene with Mommy and the kids, but at this point, he and Mommy are getting loaded at the bar, which looks just like The Saddle Rack, but without the hookers.

(Nobody else is going to read this, but maybe I better rein it in a little, just in case.)

Roger Junior is a Junior in high school. He had met Mark, a Senior, and has feelings for him, but Roger Junior is well aware that his dad, Roger Senior, does not like homosexuals. Roger Junior is ashamed of his feelings. No he isn’t, dammit.

“It’s a new age,” Mark tells him. “Acknowledge your feelings.”

“I could get AIDS.”

“That might not be so bad, as far as the plot goes,” Mark says.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Mark says. “When is that guy going to come back? I’d like to take a break.”

Both Robert Senior and Robert Junior begin to feel trapped at this point. They begin to sweat a little. Like in a dream when you want to wake up but can’t.

Back in the bar, Annie, or was it Mary, preened. Roger Senior didn’t respond. In fact, he was eying the bartender, Brad. No, I mean, a woman named Cherry, who was working the bar that night.

(This isn’t going anywhere. What a miserable life this family has. Who wants to be a writer? You take you best shot and then you get the comments. Oh, I liked it but it went on a little too long. It needed to go on a little longer. It changed tone. I liked it at the start but the ending was too whatever. Better to just post on a blog and get fifty comments saying how clever you are.)

dum de dum…

OK, folks, let’s take another break. It’s starting to get a little quiet out there. Remember, this is supposed to be fun, not work. But no daydreaming. Daydreams do not advance the plot; they just keep cycling around the same scenes.

Now go for it! Wrap it up.

(Jeez, I usually skim these things. I’ve never actually read every word of one. Give it a quick look and vote, that’s what I say. This is torture of the damned, even if these are my own words. Get it over with. You’re only a couple words from the minimum. But don’t trust that word counter on the editor. It’ll give you a bad count and if you don’t recheck, your story can get jerked right out of the voting.)

Roger took a turn for the worse and died.

“Son,” he said at the end, “follow your heart. Trust your instincts. Be true to yourself. I’ve always known that you were, you know, the way you are… Annie, or Mary, or Sally, I love you and I’m sorry I wasn’t a better husband and next time I’ll pick names I can remember. We’ll meet again in heaven. And say goodbye to that little eight-year-old, too. (Boy, my memory…)

The End.

OK, very good. Thank you. If you’re allowed to vote on this site, do so now. You did your best, so be kind and give yourself a nice high grade.

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2 Responses

  1. XD, I rarely read long stories on here but this brilliant story had me hooked. I think you changed tone a bit and it might have benefited with more depth but less actual writing. Lol, this is a work of art 🙂

  2. I can’t believe any body ever finished a stor

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