|A View From The Garden (another viginette) (standard:romance, 987 words)|
|Author: Cyrano||Added: Mar 30 2012||Views/Reads: 1417/1035||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Friendship...what is it?|
The way I am with my friends is, while explaining a paradoxical trait to become more the gregarious loner, to be closer through my work, to communicate with them on the page rather than over drinks. I think it was Proust who claimed the only way he could truly be with his friends was to first leave them. I get that. The one thing I enjoy about writing is the independence it offers me. Thinking and being on my own. That said I know that I will not be the writer I eventually want to be without listening to advice. Time was I never sought such a thing, simply wrote freely hundreds and hundreds of drafts. When I look back I worked on those drafts correcting what I believed to be wrong; what I should have been doing was look at what I did right, and improve on those things. What, after-all, did I want to achieve? It wasn't clear for a long time, but to be thoughtful, to be articulate and eloquent. Those are the principles I wanted to follow. These principles have not changed. I wanted, vainly, to have my own writing style. That vanity has not diminished. All this is good. But there had to be something more important. After so many years the pin fell on its point! I wanted it to be fun. Today writing is the most fun I can have alone. “Mr. Frank...can you hear me?” The voice drifts on the wind, settling somewhere between my ears. I look toward the gate and my heart does that little flippy thing. “Coming, Lori.” Together we ease the big gates open. “I came yesterday, Mr. Frank...you didn't hear me calling?” She says, reaching her hand into mine. Where is inspiration if not in the hand of child? “You did...?” I realize that I'm sometimes not open to my friends. “I think you were busy being alone. You like that, don't you...” I would have answered something; something that might not hurt her, but she went on...”Will you give me a piggy back, Mr. Frank?” I lay awake hour after hour, night after night, trying to imagine why I want so much to escape from reality: to be infernally alone with just my thoughts, my imagination glowing red, making thought my language. Giddy, full of hope and anticipation. “Sure, here...” And with a twirl I take her up onto my shoulders. Writing is about reaching new heights, moments of pure emotion, defining real excitement, to see and feel things in a new way, from different perspectives; seeing life beyond the gates. To carry a story forward the way one would carry a child. “It's kind of scary, Mr. Frank...” I feel the warmth of her hands on my head, the trust, and yes, the trepidation. “I've got you, Lori...you're safe with me.” “Because you love me...?” How much better to be a friend and have their utter trust, to have been with them when all they hold in their hand is a shredded tissue, and to know why they keep a scrapbook on the bedside table. To be a friend to any child: the sissy, the dumb kid, the smart, rich kid or poor kid, the kids who wear thick glasses, the show offs, the cripples, yes, especially the crippled child. “Yes, Lori, that is indeed why.” She leans forward putting her hands under my chin, whispering into my ear. It maybe that when the creative juices determine, a friend might say something he or she would not say in the reality; encourage this change, for are we not trying to create a different voice from the real life model. Click here to read the rest of this story (47 more lines)
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