Just Pay For My Meal
“I write all kinds of genres, mostly comedy. I’ve been told that’s my best strength writing-wise. Well, so some people have a set formula for how they write and if I think about it enough I guess I do. I always start with an idea. It can be what the story is going to be about, a certain aspect or plot point of the story, something along those lines. And then after I get that idea fleshed out in my head, I ask myself ‘Why would anyone want to read this?’ If I can’t answer that well enough, it’s probably not a good idea, and I end up scrapping it.”
“How do you get your ideas?” She’ll ask me. Hopefully she will, anyway. I wouldn’t have wanted to bore her out of paying for my meal.
“I tend to write about either things that have happened to me or things that make me question how I would react to them. When it comes to writing I’m very psychological, and I think part of that comes from a form of anxiety I get when I don’t know how something I write will be criticized and reviewed. By writing mainly about topics that spark a reaction out of the characters, it turns people from seeing me as a strange author and instead considering my characters and the overall story weird while I get to keep my title as someone who’s ‘done it again.’
“Another thing is that I only write when I think I have something. If I don’t have anything, I’m a shitty author with bad ideas. But if something comes my way, and I see something in it that seems intriguing, I have to go for it. Not everyone is given the gift of ideas, sometimes ideas are thrust upon people and they have only themselves to turn them into unique pieces of art. If I get an opportunity to do something that can create a desired effect, I’ll take it.”
“Interesting,” she’ll say, and more often than not, she’ll ask me to make a story as if I can create a good one out of thin air.
“What should happen in the story?”
“Someone dies,” she’ll say, being from one of the Garfield Park suburbs of Chicago.
“Alright,” I’ll tell her, and I’ll get on with the story. (For effect, the following paragraph is an example of such a story I could give.)
Fifty years ago, and old man died. He left behind his watch, which they collected off of him. He left his sunglasses, which they took from him. He left his organs, which they came to harvest when it was discussed in court that no evidence on record proved he ever said no to being a donor, and with no remaining family, his body was shipped all around the world for many different people to use. What a slut.
She’ll think I’m funny, she’ll love me, and she’ll pay for my meal. And I’ll love her.