The sound of disposable pens being disposed of.

Personally, I experienced one fraction of a second of bliss upon completing the first draft of a book. It is immediately replaced, of course, by a huge crushing feeling of defeat in that I know I will soon be entrenched in editing all of the things I glazed over during the process of reaching this final point.

There's also the side issue of not having my "supposed to be working on" project - you know, the project you're procrastinating on so that all of the other projects you have on the table seem joyous and simple and ever-so-free-flowing? Yeah. I guess I'll have to make something else a priority, slack on that, and get back to writing what I was enjoying, again. Of course, the feeling that whatever I'm concentrating on will become a labor is probably a machination of my creativity drained brain.

The story I finished today landed with the most elegant belly flop I could muster for it. It stands at a whopping 32,000 words, approximately, barely a novella. Yet, that bothers me less than my own concerns over what, exactly, the story is that I've told, here. As with most things, it began with an idea and through the course of my compulsive typings, mutated into a wholly new creature to whom I had not been formally introduced. Standing back and taking a good hard look at the expanse of words I've slapped together, I cannot help but feel a tad concerned that I said not a single thing I intended to. Then again, had I any intentions? I can't honestly remember at this point.

It's a story, after all. A story, dammit! A story is supposed to mean something, even that something it means is ultimately nothing at all! Of course, I doubt I actually believe that.

Now, the fine question I ask myself each time I reach the end of the last line and slap "return."

"What on earth do I do with this?"

The heavy?

You know what I like?

"Witty Plastic Concept Toys, rationalizing the ease with which you abandon your dreams and a style of music called... 'twee pop' is it?"

Someone's been taking their nasty pills.

"Well, I had time to write them. Not doing much else. How about you, did you write today?"

I... not really, write, exactly. I wrote down some new ideas while I was at a stoplight, on the way to work... and I edited a short I wrote a few weeks ago.

"Ah, editing. Is that what you call it when you're too lazy to make an emotional investment in creating something that has the possibility of being imperfect?"

Well... no, I mean... I have to edit things, it's how I refine... anyway, what's your frickin' problem?

"Oh, nothing, nothing. So, tell me... what do you like?"

Ah... well, I was going to tell you about Utilitarian collections, but you're being kind of an asshole, so I think I'd rather not discuss it with you.

"That's cool, I'd probably just find a way to make you feel bad about spending money on a hobby when you're obviously unproductive."

Slow and steady, my friend.

"Slow and TV more like it."

I've been getting back into Star Trek, so freakin' sue me.

"Wonderful... Star Trek, collecting pens and old keyboards... bet you drink Belgian beer, too."

Delirium Tremens is pretty tasty but... what does that have to do with...

"You're not just a nerd anymore, man, you're about one step shy of being a shut-in coke bottle glasses ultra nerdy-dork-dorky-nerd-geek-goober-freak-trekkie. You should pre-buy a ticket for the Forklift ride. It will save time when they are all knocking a wall out of your bedroom to haul your ass to the hospital for your stomach staple."

Trekker is the preferred terminology, actually. Hey, that reminds me... do you remember that TV show "Nowhere man"? It was on the Sci Fi channel? I think he was pretending to be a pizza guy in one episode and had to, like, rescue some skinny hacker dork who was so addicted to bulletin boards that he never left his basement and was all emaciated and atrophied and wearing footie pajamas or something. Maybe it was porn he was all cracked out on, actually... I can't remember. Either way, he was shivering like a diabetic chihuahua and Nowhere Man had to help him shotgun a Capri Sun.

"I can't stand you."

Maybe your standards are too high?

"Maybe. Still wanna go to Borders later?"

Oh HELL yes. Books are sweet.

"Hells yes they are. Also, magazines."