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1st page of short book... make as classic as the start to hithh.
Skip Friter snapped out of a lazily ambivolent nap into a vague idea for a cumfy Starbooks chair. It felt as if he'd been dropped off into the chair, as if the chair was a train stop, or the bookstore a new fishbowl god had dropped his new pet goldfish into while he cleaned out his normal tank. He tried to remember where he'd just been, but some strange instinct told him that doing so would jeapordize the very fabric of reality. Perhaps it was a bad dream, or perhaps he'd just popped into existence this very moment and the psychic terror of Nonbeing previous to now would implode his tiny little freelance novelist brain.
"Novelist!" Skip exclaimed. "That's what I am, isn't it? Of course it is. That's why this notepad is sitting on my lap where it seems a half-sentence has been written and erased about ten dozen times.
" 'Skip looked down at a blank notepad. No, not blank, Skip corrected, for he could clearly see a half sentence that had been scribbled and erased at least a dozen times. Skip felt a swell of pity for a writer who had to go through ten drafts before they completed a sentence, then realized the notebook was probably his. With nothing better to do, Skip picked up the notebook's pen and decided to write something down, but then had the most surreal out-of-body experience as he realized he was narrating his own actions.'
"That was weird. Why did I do that?" Skip figured he might need a better sense of his own character and setting before writing about anyone else's. He took a moment to absorb his setting and induce whether it was real or not and whether it would be of any use to him. He certainly had a body, and he was certainly in a cumfy Starbooks chair, and there was certainly a small cafe /#111
around him and what looked like a large bookstore all around the cafe. There was also a half-empty bowl of soup on the coffee table in front of him that looked like it had been abandoned. Not just the soup, but the very idea of the soup, as if it had non sequiturly popped into existence some time ago and god had forsaken their story lines for a good while, then been pushed out of guilt to returning and deciding what should be done with them. Skip figured, then, that the bowl of soup would be a super thing to write about, but got as lazy as god had gotten, and put this off for at least another 49 minutes.
He wasn't sure if it was all created just a moment ago when he popped out of his nap--perhaps the universe always plops you into a Starbooks bookstore/cafe whenever you pop into existence--or whether it had simply always been there (or something inbetween), but he did know that for the moment at least, he was here.
Having a physical sense of environment quickly led Skip to thinking about whether there was anything to life beyond the mundane and ordinary. Since the soup was half-empty, he figured the other half must have gone somewhere, so he decided to call this Nonbeing. His memory of where he was before his contrived catch-all nap was was also mostly missing, he decided this was in Nonbeing as well. Since two entities alone in an entire realm of being--even if the non type--he figured that one more thing was there. He decided it should be his soul, since he didn't see his soul lying around anywhere and wanted to believe he had one. Whether the yearning had pushed him into deluding himself via the self-reinforcing denial that his soul existed because it wasn't there had yet to be known.
"My soul and soup are non," Skip said, then wrote this line down on the piece of paper. Or at least, Skip started to, but only got half way before deciding it didn't make any sense. Given he'd just repeated the act of writing a half-sentence down and this had happened an indefinite nmber of times before, clearly he was stuck in some strange temporal loop that he would never get out of; perhaps time resets itself every time he wrote down half a sentence and he was about to get tired and fall back into his contrived catch-all nap. Or maybe he was supposed to do something else before falling asleep again. For all he knew he was to save the universe a tousand times over then come right back to this chair and take a nap again. This seemed an interesting adventure to write about, so Skip picked up his pencil to brainstorm it, but only got a half sentence into the story's prologue before giving up again. A familiar deja vu struck him which might have had something to do with the progression of time since he woke up from his contrived catch-all nap, or perhaps another life before he'd popped into existence out of it.
"Yes, I'm definitely in some sort of strange spacial-temporal writer's loop."
Skip decided the third time would be a charm.
"Souls and soups and half-drunk juice!"
He managed to get all of this but "juice" down, seeing how there was no juice next to his soup, and it was probably another thing back in Nonbeing that hadn't filled out his census form. On an annoyed whim, he resolved to begin an index.
/really utilize 'randomness'/'junk prose' which would be funny if random, but also used to create relation to other frags##
Skip noticed a clock
He picked up his pen and began to write.
It was going to be a long frwoa.
He got the sense of having been through /../; the battle with writer's block continued, and this time.. /./
"Contrivance: the key principle of fractal nonlinear fiction." He erased this, given the definition was incomplete and only said something about contrivance rather than specifically defining it. "Nap: a gateway to another universe!" This was doubly improper for the same reason, plus it now had an exclamation mark which Skip figured didn't belong in any sort of proper definition. Skip didn't seem to be very good at defining things, but perhaps if he augmented his miserable techniques, infinity might bend back around on itself and there'd be something worthwhile about them.
"Catch-all: something in particular, or in general, that generally particularly relates to some such thing or another, sorta like this definition. Check back regularly for updates as it may be modified from time to time."
Skip smiled. His incompetency of not being able to defiine his terms properly had suddenly blossomed into a brilliant reference medium-surpassing fourth-wall-breaking referencing skill of contriving a definition that itself was an example of what it meant. He definitely had contrivance and 'catch-all' under his belt, and he felt 'nap' needed no defining, as things can only be defined in terms of one another, and there didn't seem to be anything else lying around that was anything at all like the vague nowhere-place of a nap.
Skip now combined his list to decide what "contrived catch-all nap" meant. "1. An entrance from a place unknown; a writer's out; the means to drop your plot in the middle of nowhere and still come out with flying colors. 2. Where deferred characters go. 3. Nonbeing." He shrugged, as this didn't seem sufficient. And yet, what a better place but where he was to not get things perfectly. Why, how could he develop dynamically as a character if a local freer wasn't bored to death first with his lack of talent?
"Freer! That's a good word! It sounds inventinve! Nonexistent! New!" Skip wrote it down, but couldn't come up with any better sort of definition than his normal cliche style he'd developed for so long. He decided that maybe the context he'd first thought it up in was sufficient to describe it (along with all successive examples of the word that would ever occur; "definition by onslaught usage examples." He figured this was some sort of pun worth writing down, but he'd certainly lesson about that sort of a thing by now.
As Skip's memory faded of his recent failures as a writer (he prayed it was just a hobby of his), his memory of what was going on began to increase. It could have been because that's always what happens when one comes out of a nap. or could have been because he himself had woken up in Nonbeing, and his mind was slowly hallucinating that he was not in Nonbeing at all, which would surely require time to run the red tape and fully delude himself into Being. It was a proccess that accelerated very quickly; everything around him he began to remember was there bfore; even his long-term past seemed to be coming back rather quickly. It seemed too fortunate a thing, and Skip could only chalk it up to one explanation: his own writer had hit the end of the page after spending too much time self-inseting his lack of a writing talent vicariously through Skip, and not enough doing job and contriving a segwey to make whatever was about to come next make any sense. It was brilliant if it wasn't nuts, for if the freer was dense enough to buy the generic prophecy "then something happened" as an intentional crafted foreshadowing for whatever did come next, writing a story for them wasn't going to be as difficult a task as Skip had previously expected.
In fact, the opposite was true; staring at a blank page considering documenting its infinite potetial draft seemed flooded with some sort of irony... or appropriateness... or something. It felt free; surreally free, fish free, monkey free; tree monkey free tree! "Come on, monkey! Free tree! Just pay shipping and handling to the nearest tropical rain forest." Monkeys in Starbooks? Skip shrugged. "Alright, I can cross non sequitur off my list of good ideas. I suppose I'd better save my trouble and throw run-on tangents out the window too."
, but also because of a more important reason, which began to make sense to Skip as his memories of where he was faded off.
Skip snapped out of a contrived catch-all nap in a vague idea for a cumfy Starbooks chair. While he wasn't quite sure what a contrived catch-all nap was, he knew he had just had one. It had been a vague, white, foggy limbo; it had seemed real, yet not real. Either way, it seemed to make sense for it to vanish from memory, for two reasons. One, he had short-term amnesia, and two, it seemed the only thing a contrived catch-all nap was supposed to do.
Perhaps his memory was just faulty and Skip didn't have any kind of amnesia at all. Or perhaps
hey, maybe I was you; skip said to kyle
"Ah, I remember when I was your age. I had plenty of ambitions too. I wanted to be the greatest novelist who ever lived in the first age of the universe!
And did you?
Probably not. That's something I think I'd remember if it happened. /eh/
THE END OF THE GAME IS WORTH THE WAIT
"No, no, no, you don't get it. 'The end of time is worth the wait' is funny because of the irony of time itself being involved with its own demise. 'The end of (anything else) is worth the wait' doesn't have any sort of irony whatsoever. You can't say 'The end of the show is worth the wait' and think you've said something witty, because that the end of the show is worth the wait is just tplain obvious. Plenty of people watch a season finale and say, 'Ah, now that was worth the wait!' No one ever gets to the end of the very idea of time itself and says 'Ah, now this was worth the wait!' That's why Shakespeare says <equivolent of - 'All the world's a stage and we are merely players' - neil peart / rush>, because then we can say 'the end of the show is worth the wait and be witty, because the end of the show will be equvolent to the end of time!"
"Assuming everyone's immortal." "Okay, so maybe only vampires have a death worth waiting for."
"How in the hell do you know?"
"Well, logically, you couldn't get to the end of time, because you'd have to wait forever, see, that's the joke."
He decided the concept of the union between soup and soul would have to be put off for quite awhile. Oh, say, for just under 49 minutes when the soup-soul drama would continue.
Skip got a feeling he decided to call infi-vu; the sense that quite recently he'd gone through so many dizzyling complex overlappingcombinations of every type of deja vu possible, that going through the entire thing again in any way whatsoever would implode anyone's mind in a fatal brain-dead seizure, as death is the one thing nobody could ever think they've experienced before while it's happening, and that afterward is too late to ever have the thought that they'd died before. Death was the ultimate cure to all deja vu: the ultimate thing that can only ever happen once.
He got the feeling that he'd had the feeling that he was supposed to be doing something very important so many times before that there was nothing left to do but write about it rather than go through it all [AGAIN / NOT 'A SECOND TIME.']
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