GET THE BALL ROLLING

Today I sat down with incredible intent to write The Next Great American Novel (ha!) and sort of chose a favorite scene at random to begin. I've been plugging away for a couple hours now, and it's not at all as painful as I thought it might be before. This thoroughly reinforces my belief in Newton's First Law of Motion, which states, "an object at rest stays at rest, and an object in motion stays in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force." I would have remained at rest and never written a single word had I not been forced to. The key is just to start.

And this concept doesn't apply just to the very beginning of a big project, but each and every day. Most days I'm at rest on Pinterest or on Youtube, and the unbalanced force that gets me into motion is the external motivation of my grade. Not always, but most days.

Here's my favorite passage written so far. Enjoy!

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I received the invitation at four in the morning, just as the shade of Virgil described “the time of false and lying gods”. I scribbled my departing train of thought in the margin of the library book, and upon knocking over the wilting plant on my desk, answered the madly ringing phone in a mild state of disarray.

“Hullo?” I said, brushing away the dislodged soil with my free hand into the wastebasket.

“Petey, listen,” shouted the voice from the other end, “it’s Colin, you remember, the chap from the other day, at the market.” Boisterous shouts from his end led me to believe he was at a bar.

“Oh, hi,” I said, “I’m sorry, I’ve been meaning to call about the car, it’s just that I’ve been so tied up with school, and--”

“Nevermind about the car,” he shouted, and I imagined him leaning heavily on the wall beside the pay phone, “it’s already been repaired. Look, I want to take you out for some lunch, later, my treat, okay? There’s this really--” I heard a great crashing sound in the background, “really sublime, honestly--best duck in France,” I cradled the telephone closer, trying decipher his words through the noise, “pick you up, ‘round one, alright? And make sure you’re dressed, you gotta look sharp.”

“Yes, yes, I think I understand--”

“Speak up,” he said, “there’s an awful racket over here. I think they’re trying to hoist some poor chap up the flag.”

“Okay!” I yelled back, “One o’clock!”

“Splendid!” He hung up.

I slowly replaced the phone into its cradle, and felt a sudden weight descend upon my shoulders. I flung my dressers open, knowing that I would not find anything suitable for the occasion. Just as I felt ready to strangle myself with my least favorite tie, a timid knock came to my bedroom door. I opened it a crack to reveal Daniel, the RA, who, as far as I could tell, was a gentle soul who was a double, or triple major in biochemistry or mechanical engineering or something of the sort. He seemed harmless enough, and I always saw him writing in small, crooked letters on the dormitory announcement board. He was wearing green flannel pajamas, with a gold monogrammed pocket, the sort that families bought each other at Christmastime.

“Hullo, Peter,” he said, kind of looking around, “I’ve just come to ask you to keep it down a bit? We heard a bit of shouting just now? Everything alright?”

“Yes,” I said, in an embarrassed sort of way, “Sorry, I’m having a frightful time finding something nice to wear to lunch tomorrow.”

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