This is what I get when I read Virgina Woolf. This and a lot of mental cramping.
You’re not supposed to get it, guys! It’s IMPLICIT. Whatever that means. Those tricky tricky modernists, always making us think that stories can just not make sense that thus, they make sense.
Well, I’m challenging their GUFF. I can be incoherent too, you know!
At least Woolf isn’t Dickenson.
There’s always that.
Title: Waking Up
Genre: Realistic/Surrealist Fiction
Word Count: 109
“My, my, just look at the time!”
It’s 7:58 AM… yesterday.
“It’s positively in cabibbles!”
“Is that bad?”
8:14. AM? I think it’s today.
“It’s the worst thing since unsliced bread.”
“Pick up the clock, dear. Read what it says. My eyes are so bad in the morning!”
9:03 PM. Three weeks ago… no, that doesn’t sound right.
“You know my ears are all clogged around dawn, darling. I can’t hear a single tune you’re whistling.”
“Look, the sun’s rising. Or this is the orangest night in history.”
“What? Speak up.”
9:42. It’s 9:42. On Thursday.
“When is class today, dear?”
9:00. Class is at 9:00 AM. Today. Darnit.
I can’t tell you how many times the above scenario has happened to me. Well, yes I can. A lot. It’s happened a lot of times. Mix my multitude of alarms, over-zealous internal clock, and general incoherence during the early morning and you have a recipe for many mini heart attacks (though I never missed class. That only happens in my school-related nightmares). Now I inflict the pain and anxiety of waking up multiple times in the course of an hour or two on you.
It’s such a loving relationship we have from writer to reader, isn’t it? I get to write emotionally traumatizing things and you read them, thus continuing the cycle! Then in the background I sit twirling my mustache and counting my invisible heaps of author-money.
It’s just the natural order of things, I think.
Good luck, you brave writer folk!