It pays to write

Waiting, pt.2

Still the criticisms hadn't arrived. Our writer wondered why sometimes, but it wasn't much of a concern. Perhaps it was the clerk that had given him the impression of some sort of weighty conclusion to be arrived at.

It was about the sort of day to return to the park, though our writer had in mind to visit a bigger park that would be better suited for a long walk, for example.

The darkness outside had lightened somewhat. At our writer's desk, work progressed at an easy pace. He was writing about the act of discovery, specifically, writing as an act of discovery. He didn't usually write about the craft but decided to do so anyway, perhaps motivated by the impending arrival to share some of his inner thoughts. His writing was usually superficial.

Emotion didn't occur so often, but it was amazing how the club managed to use his work. He had built up no following and no reputation, writing in silence and obscurity. Perhaps here was found the lucrative opportunity that the club needed to execute shrewd business.

He was experiencing a bit of a lull instead and went by the club. No clerk, the place was empty. The door to the salon was open, and in the dark could be seen the traces of some chairs and curtains, like a backstage set.

It was peaceful to enjoy the club at this hour. It wasn't so much a public service, as the din of the traffic occurred outside. He was a sort of member, and his writing guaranteed that. He would lounge here and read—his means of exposure to the parts of the world with which he had no contact. Rare among activities, reading and writing created a very thorough lifestyle for our writer, imprecise, even haphazard, yet enduring and reliable.

Our writer would engage in reflection and reflected upon the fact that these activities might have made him a one-dimensional person. His life certainly seemed to lack color and what could be the reason for that? And what's the point of recognizing his life for what it's worth? He thought one of the first criticisms that he'd get was that his writing lacked color and energy, at least the right form of energy. The brooding darkness seemed to hang onto his words.

The experience of lacking color and energy was one to be told, nonetheless. Perhaps it was what was missing from the world, instead of him needing to ask himself what he needed to do to be a part of it. When one reflected on all the things one could do in life, it made the lack of color and energy pale in comparison. It wasn't really desirable, but it had its place, didn't it?

Define its place was perhaps what our writer should do, at present, continuing these reflections in the small antechamber, candles notched into the walls and occasionally lit. Lamps scattered, like the literature and round tables with them. As if it all had been shaken like dice and flung into the space, beating at its boundaries before finding its place and settling.