yorkoa
09-14-2014, 04:27 PM
A war exists within every artist, and every artist has to accept a war against the world. This is Martin's war.
Martin was born in a small hospital outside of Hartford, Connecticut. He had a fairly average childhood, was no less neurotic than your average adolescent, and always had many friends. Martin got through High School with decent grades and studied English at a University in Connecticut.
During college, Martin met Margaret, his future wife. She also studied English, and later accepted a job as a technical writer. Writing always fascinated Martin. During college, he always had ideas that could become great stories, but never had enough time to write anything down. He knew people would enjoy reading his stories. He shared his ideas with his peers and everyone applauded him. Martin decided to pursue writing after he graduated from college.
Martin eventually graduated college with a very high GPA. He accepted a job at an insurance agency, got married to Margaret, and eventually fathered two children. Caught up in life, Martin nearly abandoned his dream of writing. He had to go to work, come home, take care of the children, be a husband, and do the same thing over again the next day. Martin felt like he betrayed the natural gift of storytelling that his Creator had bestowed upon him. He decided he would spend an hour a day, just before bed, writing stories.
It seemed like the writing went well for a while. Martin created characters, used his pen as a paintbrush to compose vivid imagery, and scribbled storylines that had potential. Martin endeavored to stick with one story but struggled to quiet his mind. In the midst of working on a story, a new idea would sneak into Martin's head, and he would trash the idea he was working on and run with the new idea that crept into his head. Martin soon realized that he needed more than an hour a night to write. He assumed it would be much easier to formulate his thoughts completely if he had two hours to work on his stories.
To have two hours a day to work on his stories, Martin decided needed to discontinue eating dinner with his family. If he ate while he worked, it would give him a full hour more a night to write. He assumed his family would forgive him once they realized the success of his writing. At first, Margaret completely rejected the idea.
"You'd rather spend two hours a night in that smelly basement 'working' than have dinner with your family!?" she yelled.
"Margaret, please," Martin pleaded, "you have to trust me! I'll be happy once I get a few stories published! We will get a house on the coast for you and the kids!"
"I don't want a goddamn house on the coast!" she screamed. "I want to have dinner with my husband and my kids! Is that so much to ask? That is the only time we have to talk every night, and you want to take that away? We already go to bed at separate times! I can't even remember the last time we..."
"Margaret! The kids can hear us!" yelled Martin. "Just trust me, if I have one extra hour each night, I can get a lot more writing done. Once I get published, I can quit my job, and we can spend day after day together!"
"Damnit, Martin," she said. "Fine, but I'm not cooking your ****ing meals!"
"Margaret! The kids!" yelled Martin, but she walked away. Martin retreated to the basement, where he had a crisp stack of papers lying on his desk. He put his pen down. His soul possessed his hand. Like an instrument, Martin wrote effortlessly and melodically his deepest inhibitions. Finally, he was at complete peace. No nagging wife, no loud kids, just him and the basement. Martin set his timer for two hours, and wrote for two hours.
The next morning Martin went to work. A new idea for a story sauntered into his thoughts like a curious cat. The story he spent two hours on the night before seemed like complete rubbish compared to this new idea. He sat in his cubicle trying not to forget it, trying to work at the same time, and trying to look normal in front of his coworkers. Suddenly, a thought came to his head. He realized that he could spend an hour at work writing his stories, and nobody would ever notice. Martin already spent a lot of time lollygagging with other employees in the break room. Martin began devoting all of his extra time to his stories.
Martin still faced a major problem. He could not seem to stick to one story. Each time he stopped working on a story, a new idea would pop-up, and he would discard his work to pursue the new idea. Martin decided that his problem centered around spending time away from his stories. Without consulting his wife, Martin quit his job to write full time. He went home to tell his wife what he did.
"What the **** is wrong with you?" she said, too tired of Martin's nonsense to muster up any other words.
"Margaret, try to understand!" he begged. "I will have more time to pursue my writing without this job! I can complete my stories, have them published, and I will make more money in the end doing just that!"
"Your stories!?" she yelled. "You haven't produced a single story in your entire life! You have been distancing yourself more-and-more from your family, your community, and reality! I don't even know you anymore! Have you ever even talked to a publisher before? Do you even know how that process works? Do you know how much a writer makes?"
"Listen, I'll work on my stories all throughout the day and when you get home from work we can spend more time together," said Martin.
"How will we pay the bills? We might make it a few months, but after that I don't think we will be able to keep up!" she screamed.
"In a few months I'll have stories published! I'll sign a contract and make money!" replied Martin.
"This is ridiculous. Do whatever you want to do," she said, and she went upstairs. Margaret's approval of Martin's new full-time profession excited him. He ran to the basement and began writing. Thoughts flowed in and Martin poured them out onto paper. He wrote all through the night, and fell asleep at his desk. As soon as he awoke, he continued to write.
Martin began losing track of time. He spent all of his days in the basement, shielded from the world. Martin found an old mattress to sleep on so he wouldn't be away from his writing for too long. He only went upstairs occasionally to quickly find something to eat. Martin would race upstairs, grab something from the pantry, and then race back downstairs to continue writing. One good idea would lead him to a better idea, and he felt his writing continued to improve. After an obscure period of time, Martin decided to take a short break from his writing to spend time with his family. Still, he had never completed a story, but he felt close.
When he emerged from the den, Martin realized how empty and dusty the house was.
"Margaret?!" he yelled. No one responded, and he realized that no one was home. He looked at the clock and it read 6:32 PM. Normally, his family ate dinner at this time. They should have been home. Martin went out to the mailbox, opened it, and found it packed full of unopened mail. He looked up and saw his driveway coated with unread newspapers. He looked at his lawn and the grass rose above his kneecaps.
Martin quickly ran inside and phoned his wife. She disconnected her cell phone. He tried to call her sister and parents, but they refused to talk to him or tell him where she had gone. Martin pounded his fists against the kitchen table and demanded to know where his family was, but nobody gave him any answers. He looked through the bills and saw that they were all overdue. This is when Martin sought me out.
"What seems to be troubling you, Martin?" I asked as he sat in my red chair across from me, frantically scratching at his beard.
"I can't finish a story," replied Martin quickly. His eyes darted around the room. Months of shielding himself from people made it difficult for him to speak.
"You can't finish a story? What do you mean?" I asked.
"I mean that I am a writer, but I just can't finish a story. Every time I get a good idea, I run with it, but when I start writing about that idea, a new, better idea pops into my head, and the story I am working on when I get the new idea just sounds like ****. I throw away the story that I'm working on and pursue the new idea, but then a better idea comes to mind, and I pursue that idea. It's an endless cycle, and I just can't seem to produce a single story. I just can't quiet my thinking."
"How long has this been going on?" I asked.
"For as long as I can remember," replied Martin. "I've been writing stories all my life, but I've never finished a single one."
"That sounds frustrating. Do you have a family?" I asked. He looked up at me and hesitated before answering my question.
"No, not anymore," he said. I tried to pull some truth out of him, but he dodged each question I asked and focused the conversation on his writing. He told me bits and pieces of the truth, from which I constructed this account of his life. Wretchedness obscured most of his thoughts, and he could no longer think of much else but his writing. "Doc, can you help me focus my thinking?"
"I can only try," I replied. I thought about how I could help him come up with a story, since that is what he paid me for. "Okay, Martin, I think can help you. Now, this might sound a little strange, but if you do what I tell you to do, you will be able to finish a story. I want you to go home, get a good night sleep. Start writing in the morning. Don't stop writing. Before you discard the story for a better one, give me a call. Whatever you do, call me before you throw away the story."
Martin left the office, frantic and skeptical about my tactic. He went home, got a good night sleep, and began writing in the morning. Sure enough, after two hours of writing, I got a phone call about a better idea. I encouraged him not to throw away the idea he was working on, and after twenty minutes of arguing, he agreed that he wouldn't throw it away. I got four more phone calls that day, and each of them consisted of me convincing him to continue working on the story that he started in the morning. The next day I got a phone call.
"I did it!" yelled the voice from the other end.
"Martin? Is that you? It's five AM," I uttered, half asleep.
"I finished a story! I can't believe it! You've helped me finish a story!" he exclaimed.
"That's great Martin, I'm glad I could help," I replied.
"I'll come to your office at nine AM to show you what I've written," he said. I arrived at my office and waited for Martin. He never showed up. The next day, I read in the newspaper that Martin died in a car accident. I suspect he was headed to my office since the crash occurred at 8:48 AM. He fell asleep at the wheel driving forty miles per hour over the speed limit. His car flew off the road, hit a ditch, and flipped. The car lit on fire and everything inside of it burned up, even the only story he had ever finished.
Martin was born in a small hospital outside of Hartford, Connecticut. He had a fairly average childhood, was no less neurotic than your average adolescent, and always had many friends. Martin got through High School with decent grades and studied English at a University in Connecticut.
During college, Martin met Margaret, his future wife. She also studied English, and later accepted a job as a technical writer. Writing always fascinated Martin. During college, he always had ideas that could become great stories, but never had enough time to write anything down. He knew people would enjoy reading his stories. He shared his ideas with his peers and everyone applauded him. Martin decided to pursue writing after he graduated from college.
Martin eventually graduated college with a very high GPA. He accepted a job at an insurance agency, got married to Margaret, and eventually fathered two children. Caught up in life, Martin nearly abandoned his dream of writing. He had to go to work, come home, take care of the children, be a husband, and do the same thing over again the next day. Martin felt like he betrayed the natural gift of storytelling that his Creator had bestowed upon him. He decided he would spend an hour a day, just before bed, writing stories.
It seemed like the writing went well for a while. Martin created characters, used his pen as a paintbrush to compose vivid imagery, and scribbled storylines that had potential. Martin endeavored to stick with one story but struggled to quiet his mind. In the midst of working on a story, a new idea would sneak into Martin's head, and he would trash the idea he was working on and run with the new idea that crept into his head. Martin soon realized that he needed more than an hour a night to write. He assumed it would be much easier to formulate his thoughts completely if he had two hours to work on his stories.
To have two hours a day to work on his stories, Martin decided needed to discontinue eating dinner with his family. If he ate while he worked, it would give him a full hour more a night to write. He assumed his family would forgive him once they realized the success of his writing. At first, Margaret completely rejected the idea.
"You'd rather spend two hours a night in that smelly basement 'working' than have dinner with your family!?" she yelled.
"Margaret, please," Martin pleaded, "you have to trust me! I'll be happy once I get a few stories published! We will get a house on the coast for you and the kids!"
"I don't want a goddamn house on the coast!" she screamed. "I want to have dinner with my husband and my kids! Is that so much to ask? That is the only time we have to talk every night, and you want to take that away? We already go to bed at separate times! I can't even remember the last time we..."
"Margaret! The kids can hear us!" yelled Martin. "Just trust me, if I have one extra hour each night, I can get a lot more writing done. Once I get published, I can quit my job, and we can spend day after day together!"
"Damnit, Martin," she said. "Fine, but I'm not cooking your ****ing meals!"
"Margaret! The kids!" yelled Martin, but she walked away. Martin retreated to the basement, where he had a crisp stack of papers lying on his desk. He put his pen down. His soul possessed his hand. Like an instrument, Martin wrote effortlessly and melodically his deepest inhibitions. Finally, he was at complete peace. No nagging wife, no loud kids, just him and the basement. Martin set his timer for two hours, and wrote for two hours.
The next morning Martin went to work. A new idea for a story sauntered into his thoughts like a curious cat. The story he spent two hours on the night before seemed like complete rubbish compared to this new idea. He sat in his cubicle trying not to forget it, trying to work at the same time, and trying to look normal in front of his coworkers. Suddenly, a thought came to his head. He realized that he could spend an hour at work writing his stories, and nobody would ever notice. Martin already spent a lot of time lollygagging with other employees in the break room. Martin began devoting all of his extra time to his stories.
Martin still faced a major problem. He could not seem to stick to one story. Each time he stopped working on a story, a new idea would pop-up, and he would discard his work to pursue the new idea. Martin decided that his problem centered around spending time away from his stories. Without consulting his wife, Martin quit his job to write full time. He went home to tell his wife what he did.
"What the **** is wrong with you?" she said, too tired of Martin's nonsense to muster up any other words.
"Margaret, try to understand!" he begged. "I will have more time to pursue my writing without this job! I can complete my stories, have them published, and I will make more money in the end doing just that!"
"Your stories!?" she yelled. "You haven't produced a single story in your entire life! You have been distancing yourself more-and-more from your family, your community, and reality! I don't even know you anymore! Have you ever even talked to a publisher before? Do you even know how that process works? Do you know how much a writer makes?"
"Listen, I'll work on my stories all throughout the day and when you get home from work we can spend more time together," said Martin.
"How will we pay the bills? We might make it a few months, but after that I don't think we will be able to keep up!" she screamed.
"In a few months I'll have stories published! I'll sign a contract and make money!" replied Martin.
"This is ridiculous. Do whatever you want to do," she said, and she went upstairs. Margaret's approval of Martin's new full-time profession excited him. He ran to the basement and began writing. Thoughts flowed in and Martin poured them out onto paper. He wrote all through the night, and fell asleep at his desk. As soon as he awoke, he continued to write.
Martin began losing track of time. He spent all of his days in the basement, shielded from the world. Martin found an old mattress to sleep on so he wouldn't be away from his writing for too long. He only went upstairs occasionally to quickly find something to eat. Martin would race upstairs, grab something from the pantry, and then race back downstairs to continue writing. One good idea would lead him to a better idea, and he felt his writing continued to improve. After an obscure period of time, Martin decided to take a short break from his writing to spend time with his family. Still, he had never completed a story, but he felt close.
When he emerged from the den, Martin realized how empty and dusty the house was.
"Margaret?!" he yelled. No one responded, and he realized that no one was home. He looked at the clock and it read 6:32 PM. Normally, his family ate dinner at this time. They should have been home. Martin went out to the mailbox, opened it, and found it packed full of unopened mail. He looked up and saw his driveway coated with unread newspapers. He looked at his lawn and the grass rose above his kneecaps.
Martin quickly ran inside and phoned his wife. She disconnected her cell phone. He tried to call her sister and parents, but they refused to talk to him or tell him where she had gone. Martin pounded his fists against the kitchen table and demanded to know where his family was, but nobody gave him any answers. He looked through the bills and saw that they were all overdue. This is when Martin sought me out.
"What seems to be troubling you, Martin?" I asked as he sat in my red chair across from me, frantically scratching at his beard.
"I can't finish a story," replied Martin quickly. His eyes darted around the room. Months of shielding himself from people made it difficult for him to speak.
"You can't finish a story? What do you mean?" I asked.
"I mean that I am a writer, but I just can't finish a story. Every time I get a good idea, I run with it, but when I start writing about that idea, a new, better idea pops into my head, and the story I am working on when I get the new idea just sounds like ****. I throw away the story that I'm working on and pursue the new idea, but then a better idea comes to mind, and I pursue that idea. It's an endless cycle, and I just can't seem to produce a single story. I just can't quiet my thinking."
"How long has this been going on?" I asked.
"For as long as I can remember," replied Martin. "I've been writing stories all my life, but I've never finished a single one."
"That sounds frustrating. Do you have a family?" I asked. He looked up at me and hesitated before answering my question.
"No, not anymore," he said. I tried to pull some truth out of him, but he dodged each question I asked and focused the conversation on his writing. He told me bits and pieces of the truth, from which I constructed this account of his life. Wretchedness obscured most of his thoughts, and he could no longer think of much else but his writing. "Doc, can you help me focus my thinking?"
"I can only try," I replied. I thought about how I could help him come up with a story, since that is what he paid me for. "Okay, Martin, I think can help you. Now, this might sound a little strange, but if you do what I tell you to do, you will be able to finish a story. I want you to go home, get a good night sleep. Start writing in the morning. Don't stop writing. Before you discard the story for a better one, give me a call. Whatever you do, call me before you throw away the story."
Martin left the office, frantic and skeptical about my tactic. He went home, got a good night sleep, and began writing in the morning. Sure enough, after two hours of writing, I got a phone call about a better idea. I encouraged him not to throw away the idea he was working on, and after twenty minutes of arguing, he agreed that he wouldn't throw it away. I got four more phone calls that day, and each of them consisted of me convincing him to continue working on the story that he started in the morning. The next day I got a phone call.
"I did it!" yelled the voice from the other end.
"Martin? Is that you? It's five AM," I uttered, half asleep.
"I finished a story! I can't believe it! You've helped me finish a story!" he exclaimed.
"That's great Martin, I'm glad I could help," I replied.
"I'll come to your office at nine AM to show you what I've written," he said. I arrived at my office and waited for Martin. He never showed up. The next day, I read in the newspaper that Martin died in a car accident. I suspect he was headed to my office since the crash occurred at 8:48 AM. He fell asleep at the wheel driving forty miles per hour over the speed limit. His car flew off the road, hit a ditch, and flipped. The car lit on fire and everything inside of it burned up, even the only story he had ever finished.