Broken-down Poetry: Creative Writing: Untitled


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Monday, August 9, 2010

Creative Writing: Untitled

Yes, a preface: I can't title this, because if I did, it'd be really cheesy. It'd probably be something like The Words Didn't Come or He's Perfect. Oh barf. 

Here's the thing about writing fiction: it's fiction. Ha, it's not true. But in some regards, it is true. I can't write something that doesn't have some truth in it, or something I've seen in real life, etc. But you all are going to read it and think that it's absolute truth. I know you, audience; I know some of you will. You'll say the "she" is me and the "he" is Nathan. And you'll write some stupid comment saying either "aww" or "oh barf." 

So just read it as fiction. And don't leave any awkward comments.



She clutched her mug. She took a sip. Lukewarm coffee. She set the mug down. Pause. She took another sip. Her friend asked her, "What's he like?" She thought. But couldn't answer. The words didn't come. She knew in her head. But she couldn't say it. 

She couldn't say how much she loves the way he cuts his hair; the way he dresses; the way he smiles at her; the way he plays the drums on her arm; the way he talks more sentimentally at night than in the day; the way he tastes like beer; the way he pronounces her name; the way he laughs when he tells stories; the way he rambles on ...; the way he cares about what she cares about; the way he's over the top; the way he's just enough; the way his smell clings to her clothes after they've hugged goodbye.

When she's asked, she cannot answer. Not how she should. "He's perfect," she says. And leaves it at that.

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