It pays to write

Transportation, part three

After a few days of forgetting writing altogether, the writer was again motivated to take up the task.

He considered what in his mind or elsewhere was limiting him. Considered whether to continue with what he was writing or start something new.

Again, there was the poem, which was set aside. Poetry was not popular with the general audience, and our author was looking for something with general appeal.

It was perhaps the pursuit of quality limiting his work. There were no quality standards, but it would be helpful for success. The public was discerning.

It was dark again and he sat at a window in the house. Perhaps he spent too much time in the dark, as well.

He probably should spend some time outside in fresh air, not visiting the writing club for some days. He found a nearby park, and, in the dark, went there.

This town was unique. A park was a park, a club was a club. Functional, one might say. These places embodied quite faithfully a dictionary's definition of the place. No room for creative interpretation, and it was the sort of town that suited our writer. How he ended up here, he didn't quite remember.

He considered that he might be limited by the story he was trying to tell. Perhaps the story needed to be told a certain way. This thought occurred on the way to the park.

At the park, there were no birds or wildlife and not much of nature, really. There were trees, bushes, and grass, faithfully green and to be used as such. The place was certainly designed for function. (And perhaps he was relearning his language, he thought to himself.) He sat on a bench in reflection.