I used to write.

[batskeets]

marykae issued a challenge this morning to stop what we're doing, and write about what you'd been doing for the past hour, in a story format. There was a time when I was at least quasi-serious about becoming some type of writer, and that part of my brain must've been firing on all cylinders this morning, because I took that request more seriously than I expected to. So, here it is:

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It's another brisk, fall morning in Portland.

Blinding rays of sunlight penetrate into the cool, dark space of my kitchen, as I swallow the last remnants of a hot herbal tea. I've thrown caution to the wind by donning a sleeveless dress under my peacoat this morning, in spite of the chill in the air, but as I'm ready to dash out the back door, I remember at the last moment to grab my favorite pair of fingerless gloves. Style isn't quite worth the discomfort of cold extremities.

Trudging up the road with the Dandy Warhols wafting through my earbuds, I see three people saunter out of the church up the road. Two of them get into their car, while the third stands in the middle of the sidewalk, watching them go. He's young and attempting some semblance of Shabby Chic, but instead lands squarely in the land of Trashy Hipster. He's so enthralled by his friends' departure that he doesn't realize he's blocking my path until the last second. He steps aside just in time for me to brush past him.

As I arrive at the bus stop, I pull out my phone and load up my latest app download: High School Hero. I silently curse Melissa and Josh for sucking me into yet another time-wasting iPhone game--as if I have time to waste even without it--but the gamer in me does her best to power-level her Intelligence score before she runs out of energy to spend on Activities. I imagine the novelty will wear off before too terribly long, but for the short few minutes of lingering near the Tri-Met shelter, it's good enough.

Stepping onto the bus, I flash my pass at the driver, and look towards the back, noticing that my favorite seat is occupied by three high school kids. In fact, there seem to be quite a few high schoolers on the bus this morning, and they're as loud as I remember being at that age. Turning up the volume on my headphones, I bury my nose in a loaner copy of Down and Derby for the duration, and do my level best to drown out their frenzied chatter, as I absorb as many roller derby factoids as possible into my brain.

When the bus finally pulls up to the office building that will own my soul for the next 7.5 hours, I make motions to get off the bus. The seemingly-able-bodied woman occupying the aisle seat simply moves her legs a bit to the side, because she apparently can't be bothered to stand and give me room to get out. I manage to clamber over her awkwardly, and make my escape from the dingy vehicle, politely thanking the driver as I step out the door.

After a short walk and an elevator ride to the 5th floor, I approach my cubicle with a bit of hesitation in my step, until I look up and see a very tall tripod in my space. That certainly wasn't there when I last left the office. My steps slow and I stare at it quizzically, and my fellow web developer takes notice, explaining in his usual slightly-awkward fashion that he needs to shoot video at an event tomorrow, and wanted to see how high the tripod would extend. Why he needed to do that in my cube, I'm not certain, but I quip with a surprisingly chipper tone, "oh, I was thinking, 'is that a gift? Because I'll totally take it!'" Wishful thinking, on my part.

He moves the tripod out of my work space, and I plop down in my chair, back exposed, with a resentment-flavored sigh. Counting down the hours never seems to get easier.

Comments

[skeets.livejournal.com]

Heh, yeah, it was some time ago. :) But, I did start college as a journalism major--largely because I wasn't convinced I could hack it as a fiction writer without starving to death--and made a serviceable attempt at NaNoWriMo back in 2003.