Fragments of a Masterpiece
I am a master of broken pieces. Honestly, the way I write starts less at the beginning of the work and more around whatever mildly-satisfactory sentence I write first. Any aspiring writer knows that there will be fantastic sentences that you write in the middle of nowhere.
To name a few: the brief recollection of a memory that you absentmindedly scribbled into a half-empty (or half-full for all you annoying optimists) journal. A totally random sentence in your introduction with more personality than your entire story. A particularly energetic closing line after a little too much coffee. Unfortunately, the hard reality that comes with those beautiful fragments is realizing when those fantastic sentences are just not meant for the work you are creating. I was getting a little sad, scrolling through my collection of forgotten favorites. It was like coming upon a pile of your favorite old stuffed animals, long forgotten in the back of your closet. So, out of pity, nostalgia and a little guilt, I decided to put my beloved stuffed animals into the light. Here are some of my favorite fragments, from stories I will most likely never finish:
In the distance, she couldn’t tell if planes were landing or taking off, only that they looked like mechanical fireflies flitting against the setting horizon.
He wholeheartedly believed the book had swallowed his soul with every page, just enough that he had to come back to its crinkled pages. Otherwise, he started to question whether he felt anything at all.
They didn’t realize peace would be so lonely.
Their trust of one another was like a worn collar of a shirt, stretched and wrinkled past the point of ironing out.
Remnants of youth rested gently in parts of her face–the brightness in her eyes, the bounce in her grey curls, the curve of her lips when she smiled.
It’s funny, the more I typed onto this post, the less I began to believe that my fragments would never see the sun. This is all for now, for it looks like I have some new stories to write.
