The Night Was...

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
It's about a writer with writer's block

Submitted: July 29, 2014

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Submitted: July 29, 2014

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The Night Was…

The night was… 

The night was… 

The night was… what?

What was the night? 

The night was… moist? 

No, nights aren’t moist.  Cakes are moist.

Damp?  No, rags are damp.

Humid? 

Yeah. 

The night was humid…

And dark. 

The night was humid and dark. 

Well, of course the night was dark.  The night is always dark.  It’s the opposite of day, which is bright.  That’s why it’s night, stupid. 

Okay… 

The night was humid…

And…

Um…

The night was humid…

And…

Dark?  Dammit! 

Stop it with the fucking dark. 

Now… 

The night was humid and dark.

Son of a bitch. 

Okay, “dark” isn’t going away.  So, let’s work with this. 

Now… dark… 

Let’s check the thesaurus. 

Dark… black… gloomy… sinister… shady… shadowy… murky… 

Yeah, maybe there‘s something there. 

The night was humid and sinister. 

No! 

The night was gloomy and sinister. 

Yeah, now we’re working.  Okay, what else? 

What else? 

Hmmm…  Let’s go back to humid. 

To the thesaurus!

Humid… moist… damp…  son of a bitch. 

Okay, new track: 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid…

Um…

Okay, back to humid for a second. 

Now, humid…  Not moist or damp…  Let’s see…  Hmm… steamy… sticky… clammy… muggy… sultry… wet…  Oh yeah…

Wait… focus. 

Okay, let’s try something with “steamy” and “sticky.” 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy, sticky humid that lingers around, making everything muggy and clammy. 

Okay.  Better.  A little too much though. 

Hmm…

Let’s get rid of that “muggy, clammy” part. 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around…

Okay.  Not bad. 

Now what? 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around…

Now, what?

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around…

Okay, now what!? 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around…

like…

a…

cheap…

dime-store, pulp fiction, you fucking hack!!!! 

DAMMIT!!!! 

What now? 

Should I just start the fuck over? 

I could, if I had actually started in the first fucking place.  You need to actually go somewhere for a while for a start to have occurred.  But, you haven’t gone anywhere.  You’ve been stuck with The night was… for the past two weeks, you shithead! 

DAMMIT!!!! 

No, this is not helping.  I haven’t gotten anywhere, and I won’t if I keep changing the beginning.  I’ve gone from The man to The woman to The boy to The car to The boat to The sea to The day to The night.  I have to stick with something.  I’m sticking with The night.

Now…

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around…

Oppressively…

Wait.  That’s good. 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around oppressively.

Okay.  Good.  Very good. 

But… what oppresses? 

Dictators… fascists…  No, that’s basically the same thing as dictators… 

What else oppresses?

Mothers? 

Wait a minute, don’t want to get Oedipal with this. 

Hmm…

Back to the thesaurus.

Oppressive… cruel… overwhelming…  humid? 

Well, I’m in the right ballpark. 

Anyway, this could still work, especially since the night is sinister. 

Hmm…  let’s try something. 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around cruelly.  With the darkness of the night, it was overwhelmingly cruel, oppressive as a tyrant.  It was pitch black, so dark there was nothing to see but one’s own imaginations…

No, not “imaginations.” 

Something else.  But, what? 

Let’s see…

Um…

Thesaurus time.

Imaginations…  thoughts… dreams… fancies…

Okay, there’s something there. 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around cruelly.  With the darkness of the night, it was overwhelmingly cruel, oppressive as a tyrant.  It was pitch black, so dark there was nothing to see but one’s own thoughts.  Nothing to do but to look into one’s own mind’s eye.  To look at…

Hold on…

Something’s not right.  Something’s off. 

But, what? 

The night was gloomy and sinister. 

Okay…

The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around cruelly. 

That’s fine…

With the darkness of the night, it was overwhelmingly cruel, oppressive as a tyrant. 

Nothing wrong with that…

It was pitch black, so dark there was nothing to see but one’s own thoughts.  Nothing to do but to look into one’s own mind’s eye. 

There we go.  Something’s off about these sentences. 

It was pitch black, so dark there was nothing to see but one’s own thoughts.  Nothing to do but to look into one’s own mind’s eye. 

Yeah.  Something doesn’t feel right. 

It was pitch black,

That’s fine.

so dark there was nothing to see

That’s okay, too.

but one’s own thoughts. 

There we go!

Nothing to do but to look into one’s own mind’s eye. 

The “one’s own” part.  Sounds too much like an essay.  Remember what Mr. Beggs said:  “There’s nothing wrong with pronouns.” 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around cruelly.  With the darkness of the night, it was overwhelmingly cruel, oppressive as a tyrant.  It was pitch black, so dark there was nothing to see but your own thoughts.  Nothing to do but to look into your mind’s eye. 

There we go.

To look at your dreams, your fancies, your imaginations.  To look at yourself, to really see yourself.  To see who you really are.  And, not like what you see.

Yes, this is good.

And, what do you see?

Yeah, now we’re cooking. 

What do you see when you look into the abyss?  What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you? 

YES! 

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

Yes!

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

Yes.

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

Yeah…

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

Me, I see a hack.  I see a fucking a hack.  I see a goddamn, lousy writer with no ounce of talent in his soul.  A fucking moron who rips off Nietzsche because he doesn’t have an original thought in his body.  A pretentious doofus who thinks that philosophical crap will make this dime store, pulp fiction crap look like the next coming of Ulysses!  A talentless moron who has no business reading let alone trying to follow in the footsteps of the legendary writers who came before him!  A dumbass who makes Nicholas Sparks look like Margaret Atwood!

And, who is this idiot!?  Who is this stupid, sanctimonious piece of shit who has the balls to call himself a writer!?  Well, his name is Marcus Riker, a puny, pitiful little shitstain of a man!  He’s an ugly, unhealthy, plain, average-looking man who has no redeeming qualities that the opposite sex would find attractive!  He uses redundancies all the time, like “plain, average-looking” as if one is clear enough!  He’s has no financial hopes, bouncing from job to job like a slut spending all her nights in other people’s beds!  He demeans women in the littlest ways, like describing himself, because of his pathetic lovelife is nonexistent, which is his own fault, that he takes it out on the fairer sex to make himself feel better!  He’s RUDE!  He’s THOUGHTLESS!  HE’S A TERRIBLE LOVER!  AND, HE JUST PLAIN FUCKING SUCKS!!!!  HE IS SO COMPLETELY WORTHLESS THAT THE WHOLE HUMAN RACE WOULD BE BETTER OFF IF HE HAD NEVER BEEN BORN!  NO WONDER GALE LEFT YOU!  NO WONDER YOUR DAD HATES YOU!  NO WONDER YOU CAN HOLD A JOB!  YOU SUCK, MARCUS!  YOU SUCK!!!!

Okay, let’s try something else. 

There was a band of trolls walking through a field to the Cave Of Sorrow in search of a magic wand that creates evil…The Night Was…

The night was… 

The night was… 

The night was… what?

What was the night? 

The night was… moist? 

No, nights aren’t moist.  Cakes are moist.

Damp?  No, rags are damp.

Humid? 

Yeah. 

The night was humid…

And dark. 

The night was humid and dark. 

Well, of course the night was dark.  The night is always dark.  It’s the opposite of day, which is bright.  That’s why it’s night, stupid. 

Okay… 

The night was humid…

And…

Um…

The night was humid…

And…

Dark?  Dammit! 

Stop it with the fucking dark. 

Now… 

The night was humid and dark.

Son of a bitch. 

Okay, “dark” isn’t going away.  So, let’s work with this. 

Now… dark… 

Let’s check the thesaurus. 

Dark… black… gloomy… sinister… shady… shadowy… murky… 

Yeah, maybe there‘s something there. 

The night was humid and sinister. 

No! 

The night was gloomy and sinister. 

Yeah, now we’re working.  Okay, what else? 

What else? 

Hmmm…  Let’s go back to humid. 

To the thesaurus!

Humid… moist… damp…  son of a bitch. 

Okay, new track: 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid…

Um…

Okay, back to humid for a second. 

Now, humid…  Not moist or damp…  Let’s see…  Hmm… steamy… sticky… clammy… muggy… sultry… wet…  Oh yeah…

Wait… focus. 

Okay, let’s try something with “steamy” and “sticky.” 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy, sticky humid that lingers around, making everything muggy and clammy. 

Okay.  Better.  A little too much though. 

Hmm…

Let’s get rid of that “muggy, clammy” part. 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around…

Okay.  Not bad. 

Now what? 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around…

Now, what?

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around…

Okay, now what!? 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around…

like…

a…

cheap…

dime-store, pulp fiction, you fucking hack!!!! 

DAMMIT!!!! 

What now? 

Should I just start the fuck over? 

I could, if I had actually started in the first fucking place.  You need to actually go somewhere for a while for a start to have occurred.  But, you haven’t gone anywhere.  You’ve been stuck with The night was… for the past two weeks, you shithead! 

DAMMIT!!!! 

No, this is not helping.  I haven’t gotten anywhere, and I won’t if I keep changing the beginning.  I’ve gone from The man to The woman to The boy to The car to The boat to The sea to The day to The night.  I have to stick with something.  I’m sticking with The night.

Now…

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around…

Oppressively…

Wait.  That’s good. 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around oppressively.

Okay.  Good.  Very good. 

But… what oppresses? 

Dictators… fascists…  No, that’s basically the same thing as dictators… 

What else oppresses?

Mothers? 

Wait a minute, don’t want to get Oedipal with this. 

Hmm…

Back to the thesaurus.

Oppressive… cruel… overwhelming…  humid? 

Well, I’m in the right ballpark. 

Anyway, this could still work, especially since the night is sinister. 

Hmm…  let’s try something. 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around cruelly.  With the darkness of the night, it was overwhelmingly cruel, oppressive as a tyrant.  It was pitch black, so dark there was nothing to see but one’s own imaginations…

No, not “imaginations.” 

Something else.  But, what? 

Let’s see…

Um…

Thesaurus time.

Imaginations…  thoughts… dreams… fancies…

Okay, there’s something there. 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around cruelly.  With the darkness of the night, it was overwhelmingly cruel, oppressive as a tyrant.  It was pitch black, so dark there was nothing to see but one’s own thoughts.  Nothing to do but to look into one’s own mind’s eye.  To look at…

Hold on…

Something’s not right.  Something’s off. 

But, what? 

The night was gloomy and sinister. 

Okay…

The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around cruelly. 

That’s fine…

With the darkness of the night, it was overwhelmingly cruel, oppressive as a tyrant. 

Nothing wrong with that…

It was pitch black, so dark there was nothing to see but one’s own thoughts.  Nothing to do but to look into one’s own mind’s eye. 

There we go.  Something’s off about these sentences. 

It was pitch black, so dark there was nothing to see but one’s own thoughts.  Nothing to do but to look into one’s own mind’s eye. 

Yeah.  Something doesn’t feel right. 

It was pitch black,

That’s fine.

so dark there was nothing to see

That’s okay, too.

but one’s own thoughts. 

There we go!

Nothing to do but to look into one’s own mind’s eye. 

The “one’s own” part.  Sounds too much like an essay.  Remember what Mr. Beggs said:  “There’s nothing wrong with pronouns.” 

The night was gloomy and sinister.  The air was humid, a steamy sticky humid that lingers around cruelly.  With the darkness of the night, it was overwhelmingly cruel, oppressive as a tyrant.  It was pitch black, so dark there was nothing to see but your own thoughts.  Nothing to do but to look into your mind’s eye. 

There we go.

To look at your dreams, your fancies, your imaginations.  To look at yourself, to really see yourself.  To see who you really are.  And, not like what you see.

Yes, this is good.

And, what do you see?

Yeah, now we’re cooking. 

What do you see when you look into the abyss?  What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you? 

YES! 

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

Yes!

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

Yes.

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

Yeah…

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

What does the abyss see when it gazes back at you?

Me, I see a hack.  I see a fucking a hack.  I see a goddamn, lousy writer with no ounce of talent in his soul.  A fucking moron who rips off Nietzsche because he doesn’t have an original thought in his body.  A pretentious doofus who thinks that philosophical crap will make this dime store, pulp fiction crap look like the next coming of Ulysses!  A talentless moron who has no business reading let alone trying to follow in the footsteps of the legendary writers who came before him!  A dumbass who makes Nicholas Sparks look like Margaret Atwood!

And, who is this idiot!?  Who is this stupid, sanctimonious piece of shit who has the balls to call himself a writer!?  Well, his name is Marcus Riker, a puny, pitiful little shitstain of a man!  He’s an ugly, unhealthy, plain, average-looking man who has no redeeming qualities that the opposite sex would find attractive!  He uses redundancies all the time, like “plain, average-looking” as if one is clear enough!  He’s has no financial hopes, bouncing from job to job like a slut spending all her nights in other people’s beds!  He demeans women in the littlest ways, like describing himself, because of his pathetic lovelife is nonexistent, which is his own fault, that he takes it out on the fairer sex to make himself feel better!  He’s RUDE!  He’s THOUGHTLESS!  HE’S A TERRIBLE LOVER!  AND, HE JUST PLAIN FUCKING SUCKS!!!!  HE IS SO COMPLETELY WORTHLESS THAT THE WHOLE HUMAN RACE WOULD BE BETTER OFF IF HE HAD NEVER BEEN BORN!  NO WONDER GALE LEFT YOU!  NO WONDER YOUR DAD HATES YOU!  NO WONDER YOU CAN HOLD A JOB!  YOU SUCK, MARCUS!  YOU SUCK!!!!

Okay, let’s try something else. 

There was a band of trolls walking through a field to the Cave Of Sorrow in search of a magic wand that creates evil…


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