A little thing I wrote for an assignment a while back. Lets you know about me. And yes, you can read the novel is you ask nicely.
Click-whirrrrr, Click-whirrrrr, Click-whirrrrr, CLUNK. Page 122 out of 150 for ‘Cicada-Man,’ a novel draft by Nick Edinger, is printed, and I cannot rest. When writing this long project, I saw a peaceful moment at its completion, without the itching heat of this square study, without this black rock of a reclining chair, without any of my eyes open. But there’s no calm like in my dreams here; the study says otherwise.
The paper smells sharp, smells no different with red ink on it than black. It’s red because I was too fast at the store to look at the label. Even my laptop is accelerating into whirs, heating and cooling and pumping a year’s sloppy work into the world. Dreams forget to think about senses: the globs of peanut butter refugees settling behind your teeth, the mountain ripples behind your t-shirt, the cell-tickling heat of light from a rusted white window. And it certainly forgets that the whole ‘basking in your achievement’ reward gets old after the first 30 pages.
Even before this moment, I expected in my vain fantasies to speak the usual cliché to admirers. “Yes, dear fans, those days of scrambling for a silent room, of scratching out entire crumpled papers, the sinking weight and shaking glee of writing down something incredibly stupid… that journey really was more important than the destination!” I’m not even at my destination yet, and this pit-stop to a published piece is akin to an unwashed bathroom with flaking walls and some trucker pounding at the door. I should not sit still, the room tells me. It’s this language of the world, in clicks and whirs, keeping me awake, the same tongue that pushes hand to pen to paper. With the last page finished, I remove novel from printer and bundle it in my sweating hands before walking from the muggy white room. This study has an oppressive speech, and it says that sometimes even the worst clichés are right.