Ever since I let go of the idea that I needed to write a novel in order to become a writer, the dream of publishing a book has quietly faded into the background.
Before I started my column, things looked different.
For months, I plotted stories in my head. I spun narrative threads, developed characters, and invested a surprising amount of energy into a book that never actually made it onto the page.
Though that is only half the truth.
A few fragments did make it out. Sometimes entire sentences, sometimes only a handful of words. They slipped into my notes app and settled there.
Most of them arrived during walks. Others appeared on trains or somewhere between the tomatoes and cucumbers at the supermarket.
A particularly inconsiderate number of them arrived in the middle of the night, demanding immediate attention with all the subtlety of a screaming infant.
The list of these fragments has become quite long.
Every time I open it, I find myself smiling a little sadly.
Most of them will probably never make it into my novel because, quite frankly, I may never write that novel.
So I thought they might as well live here instead, tucked between my short-form pieces.
What follows, in completely random order, are excerpts from a book that may never exist.
A book that, I would like to stress, has absolutely nothing to do with my own life.
Any similarities are therefore purely coincidental.
I cried for three days straight and only stopped on the fourth because a Reddit forum informed me that dehydration accelerates the breakdown of lip filler. I was sad, but not sad enough to risk the €500 I had recently invested.
I knew immediately that he was no longer married because he held the hug a little longer than usual and left his phone face-up on the table at the Italian restaurant.
A wonderfully quiet sense of diligence had crept into the office.
He bit into his carrot with such satisfaction that every subsequent crunch filled me with a wave of nausea toward my colleague, whose only crime had been finding joy in something as trivial as a vegetable.
So moving to the big city had improved my life in every conceivable way. At least on the days when I was able to ignore the persistent smell of urine lingering on every corner. Fortunately, that was most days.
Slowly, the thought began to take shape inside me...
unanimously
For a while, I lived by the principle of “do it for the plot,” and around that same time, events began escalating at an alarming rate.
This was irritating for multiple reasons.
I had never canceled one of our meetings, not even that one time when I was hit by a car the morning before and had to get thirteen stitches in my knee from an impatient doctor whose attitude made me feel like I should apologize for having been hit by a drunk driver.
I operated according to the philosophy that...
It was wonderful and terrible at the same time.
It was as if all the misfortune in the world were crashing down on me in a torrent.
A quiet premonition crept over me of what the next three months were going to look like for me.
On day three of my lingering cold, I decided to take my recovery into my own hands.
I had the feeling we could have done a remarkably good job at this relationship if only he had allowed us to.
I used to think unfinished writing was evidence of failure.
These days, I think of it differently.
Not every idea is supposed to become a book. Some are destined to grow into essays. Some spend years living rent-free inside a notes app, contributing absolutely nothing except occasional emotional support.
Which brings me to my question:
Do you also have a graveyard of unfinished sentences somewhere?
And if so, what is the best one that never found a home?
No posts
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.