12.11.2001
This is Writing Writing/Practice Naked (I'm not really naked). I choose a topic and write on that topic for no more than ten minutes. The only editing I do is for typos (I won't fix grammar, and sometimes, I won't even fix typos. As a matter of fact, you may occasionally come across unfinished sentences). This "non-editing" function does indeed have a purpose. I believe that raw writing is telling about the person writing. If I wrote in my practice notebooks at home with a pen, it isn't likely I'd go back to edit the text. So it is here. I may have a computer--but I'm trying to...shall we say..."keep it real." If you find the topic inspirational, I would love to post a link to your own rendition. Please email me your link. I think it'd be fantastic. Enjoy!
She sat by herself, not looking particularly woeful, but full of woe nonetheless. Her hair--dark chestnut, slight gradations of red--curled loosely upward from her neck like a mountain range seen from far, far away. She wore a pale yellow oxford shirt; the top button was missing. Pretty pearlized buttons that shimmered when she lifted her coffee mug to her lips. A white mug, with black lettering, bought during a trip to Berlin. The smokers, the stand-too-closers, the smell of a foreign place.
From a distance, one would think she was beautiful. Stunningly so, in fact. To approach her would be presumptuous. To talk to her would be silly. She does not speak. Looking at her, one could know this. Her lips sat together like scrolls in dungeons which nobody discovers until long after the language itself has died. She would look up at a person, attempting to speak with a dry tongue, and the speaker would blink. Stare. Did her lips just move? Are they smiling? Her eyes say yes, but nobody pays attention to her eyes. Only her lips. They could say something, and you can't help but wonder, fantasize, dream: what does her voice sound like? From a distance, one would think she spoke only when the world needed help. When all the men, young and old, have died. When all the women's wombs have fallen from heaven to feet. When all the plants have wilted. Then she'd speak, and it would seem so simple, but the women and children, and the spirits of departed men, would never think they should have thought it themselves. It wouldn't be that simple. Only simple as she can say it. Yes. From a distance, one would think she was beautiful.
Stunningly so.
