It pays to write

Waiting

Back at home, the dark atmosphere grew upon our writer's home. What once hung outside our writer's window had crept through and cast shadow over his desk and writing materials.

It was something to do with the criticism coming in and the sense of something new. It would only last some days, before returning to where it was safely outside.

In the meantime, our writer resumed his work. Critics' interest had some role in encouraging him, though he was careful to not be influenced so much by them. This work would comprise some old travel logs, things our writer had written long ago to be now updated and revised for the writers' club.

These old logs included travels at once real, hypothetical, and imaginary. Our writer would blend the three and evoke a place not far removed from the environment in which he lived. Simple, functional city life, with little in the way of adornment or excitement.

It's not that our writer avoided such things but rather an issue of compatibility. Excitement would simply pass him by in favor of more eager participants. Adornment would be found in places that he'd never find.

One day at the writers' club, he came across a few other writers as they passed into the salon. They carried weighty manuscripts tucked against their ribs and walked intently. It was unusual to see them; so often, the club was empty or the presence of idle chatter betrayed an otherwise empty building.

Like ghosts they would people the club. Mostly writers or acolytes interested in what was being written. Some would get together and work on vast projects at the club, the likes of which our author had no idea. The club was useful for many endeavors pertaining to written, and it was ideal foremost as a gathering place.

When our writer went to visit the club, about every other day now, he would check with the clerk to find out if the criticisms had arrived. Still they hadn't, and still our writer kept up with his old logs. While at the club he kept up with his reading as well.

The club wasn't such a high-minded place, nor was it much given to the literary crowd. At lest, what our writer noticed while there were usually debates, usually about practical matters. It was very much the society in his city, the administration and cyclical betterment of everything practical.

This city was like its own country too, and our writer knew that not every city was like this. Not due to its size, for it was diminutive actually. Rather, it was due to its spirit of forward motion, its energies geared toward work and accomplishment. It was unusual for cities to exhibit these traits, for often in the minds of many, work was better left wasted or worried over.