Write a book starting with one line
Published by Aeroflot in the blog Surreal Parisian Black Boxx Conglomeration No. 143. Views: 101
This is probably the most creative approach to writing that I've come upon. Have an idea stuck in your head, one that keeps popping up, and write that idea down on paper. Write it at the top of the paper and then start to ask questions about what you wrote. Who, what, where, when, how. A man is walking in a strange city at night. How did he end up there? Why is he walking at night? Who is this man? etc. Then add on the info from your questions. If you've decided that the man was kidnapped and dropped off in a strange city and now he needs to find his way home, then write about that until a new idea comes up. If that new idea is sound, add on to it. Try to keep track of where the story is going. Have a unifying theme in mind, like "there's no place like home". Maybe you have guiding questions that stick in your mind. So from that one line comes a story that keeps on adding onto itself, until finally something comes of it. When you're done it's time to rewrite.
I'm going to try this with short stories for a while.
This morning I started writing a short piece over the man who got kidnapped. Different theme, though. Might actually do something with it.
Theme: Things aren't always as they seem.
There is the sound of waves crashing at the beach and seagulls calling to one another, though I'm walking in the middle of a city in the early morning. I gaze down at my legs in motion, at the little hairs coating them. At least my legs are still there where they're supposed to be. The sidewalk goes on without ending, already bringing me ten miles—that's my guess—and I wonder if these buildings aren't uprooting themselves from behind and transplanting ahead of me. That would explain their conformity.
My little finger digs into my ear and twists around, drilling for wax. One time for three weeks I had tinnitus: couldn't hear a thing in my left ear except for a whooshing wind. I'd lay in bed after a perfectly good day, hoping to fall asleep quickly, and all is quiet except for the tempest that seemed to follow my ear. It reminded me of blowing at the top of a beer bottle. Yes, that's what it was—some nasty joker was blowing in my ear while my eyes were shut. I'm sure of it.
But there was nobody alive at this time. Not even one light in the past two dozen apartment buildings. What a peculiar city. If this was my city, then I'd have pass a half dozen people every two blocks, mostly bums and rich folk. But at least there were people to keep me company.
I'm so glad that I don't live anywhere near this city, otherwise I'd be a completely different person, I can feel it. My mind would be void of thoughts like these streets of souls. I'd be drudging through my life, a man exiled from his soul, a stranger in his own body, a trespasser of his own mind.
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