I stop typing.
In this story I write about writing about writing about...
Hmm.
This is a story I'm writing for you. Yes, you.
Reading and writing are simply two more words for conversation. You read to talk to a person you've never met and you write so that you can get the thoughts rattling around your head out there to somebody, anybody.
This story right here - yes, this one - you are one of the only people in the word who will actually read it. So when I say I'm writing for you, you should believe me.
My page is digital and my instrument a keyboard but I still feel a certain affinity to those kindred spirits who, in centuries past, put pencil to paper and lay their souls out for the world to see. Stories are are the essence of a person. Sometimes the influence of the creator is obvious and sometimes it is obfuscated by the particulars: all those niggling little details which get in the way of the ultimate meaning, silly little things like characters and plotlines and world building.
All of that is just noise and if you cut it away there's simply a monologue. By reading you turn it into a dialogue.
But I digress, I'm drifting from the point. You matter to me more than you know. Without you I would be yelling alone in an empty room. With you here I'm having an exchange of ideas. There's a world of difference between those two realities and you keep me anchored to mine.
So, when I say that I'm writing this story for you I mean it in complete and utter honesty.
I stop typing.
The idea popped into my head and I had to write a few paragraphs, but I don't think the concept can go much further. I don't know if there's a whole short story in it.
It's honest, and for some people it might be intriguing, but it feels kind of pointless to continue. There's only so much fleshing out a concept like that can take. Or then again maybe I'm just scared to be so open and let people in like that.
I huff and stand up from my desk shaking my head and lashing my tail back and forth in unison. Nothing's working for me at the moment. It feels like I'm writing in circles, making no meaningful progress on anything. I guess people call it writer's block. I call it a pain in the ass.
Writing is supposed to be engaging and rewarding, if I wanted a pain in the ass I'd just us my largest toy without lube.
Anyway...
My name is Marthell. In my spare time I write short stories for the internet. That's about all there is to it. I stare at my reflection in the mirror that sits above my desk.
There's a grey fox with a blank stare. He runs a paw down his face and sighs. He doesn't look very happy.
Circles within circles. You write about yourself and call it fiction. You write about what you know will happen, you write about what you fear will happen, you write about what you wish could happen. You write about love and loss and life and death and sex and blood.
Circles within circles. You write about yourself and in the next story you call yourself out on it. In this current story you literally are writing about yourself. You see, it's very experimental, very post modern, very meta. Mhm. Mhm. Let's all give a standing ovation to the genius.
Fuck, I'm tired. Maybe if I slept more than four hours a night this wouldn't be such an issue.
All this writing and thinking while I'm stuck here, wandering about inside my own head, is driving me crazy. I rub my eyes and yawn.
I stopped making sense a while ago.
I head to bed and he is already asleep.
You don't know him, you don't need to.
He's all mine.
If I put in a sex scene here I can add on all kinds of tags that get more clicks and views.
What the hell am I thinking. I'm not even writing anymore.
I stop typing.
I'm not so sure about this whole piece. It's a bit too meta and meditative and whiny. Plus it's way too short. The people want kinky gay furry erotica, not writing about writing about writing about...
This is me now, by the way. The real me. I wipe my glasses as I stare in the mirror, wondering whether the piece should ever see the light of day.
Does it matter whether the contents of that last sentence happened before or after I wrote it? I'm too worn out to decide.
I guess this is more flash fiction than a short story. But then there's the question of whether I can even call it fiction considering that it's all true.
I don't know. Sometimes I just need to write something full of catharsis, honesty and fear. I'm not sure whether to share this or bury it. I guess if you're reading it the question has already been answered.
You know what? I really needed to get this out of system.
Now, back to your regular scheduled reading material.
I stop typing.
Notes/Questions:
- Too whiny? Maybe add some more humor to offset this.
- Add the tags even though there is no sex scene? People will be mad. No they'll think it's funny. No they won't care. Do it.
- If I really did "stop typing" the last time then why did I type "I stop typing."? And if we're pulling back to reality a little more each time and the previous pullback was about the real me then what does the last pullback imply?
- Disregard the last question. It's clearly a pullback from a narrated, fictionalized version of my actual life to actual real reality. In this actual real reality I am done with writing the story so I stop typing.
- But then why did I actually write the last "I stop typing."? Because it's wraps around to the refrain and sounds cool.
- INCLUDE THE NOTES!?!?!!?
- I'm blowing my own mind right now.
- I guess that makes this the ending?