Aug 15, 2019: Sometimes The Story Writes Itself

I started working on a story the other day, by mistake.

It was meant to be nothing but a quick writing exercise. But as soon as I gave my character a name and wrote the first sentence, the rest of the story started writing itself.

The story’s not done yet, unfortunately, but it’s not because I ran out of ideas. It’s because I didn’t have time to finish it yet. To be honest, I’m still not sure if it’s a short story or a novella. Every time I sit at my desk, for some unknown reason, the words just come. I just type them. My fingers dance on the keyboard.

Sure, it’s a rough first draft so far. Sure, I’ll have to rewrite it at some point. But I still can’t believe it. I do not have a plot, not even a list of characters. I’m writing one event after another, one scene after another… and the words just keep coming.

I feel inspired, though I don’t know what inspired me.

Yes, sometimes the story writes itself.

You just have to be there.

On Water I Stood

(Circa 2013. Though I had the temptation/desire to edit it, I decided to keep it as is. This poem is Inspired by The Rime of the Ancient Mariner By Samuel Taylor Coleridge. If I am not mistaken, I read it in class when I first wrote it. I don’t remember much else… Anyway, it’s been collecting dust for many years now, and there’s no reason for me not to share it. Note that some lines in the third part of this poem are taken from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. )

On Water I Stood

It comes to thee at night
When thou least expect a fright.
Like a spider’s web it grows,
Whilst thy body’s paralyzed!

From beneath the seven seas,
It brings forth nine mysteries;
One of which becomes a dream
To be dreamt this night of sin.

Here the music rests in peace.
‘Tis where the saddest silence speaks!
Come! Let it tell thee what it should
‘Tis all for the better good!

Now, the muses came to thee –
‘Tis thy turn to make a speech.
“Tell us, please, what the mariner sees
And we shall tell thee what it means.”

***

Here is my spirit in the mariner’s psych.
The mariner’s asleep; the winds are alright.
Thus I float in an ocean of dreams
And, so far, I have seen what I see.

But suddenly an albatross,
A dead bird I came across
Then a monster from underwater
Warned me to go no further –

“Why?” Said I. “Dost thou,” said he
“Wish to see the devil’s burning eyes?”
“No!” Cried I, “But why, tell me,
Does the devil so dwell here?”

The sea-monster gave no answer
And like it came, it disappeared.
So I quickened pace, walked on water,
And left it all behind me.

On water I stood, ‘tis true.
Yes! So did Jesus, too.

***

‘Tis said that the ancient mariner passes,
Like night, from land to land, he passes
And till his ghastly tale is told
This heart within him burns with cold.

But suddenly an albatross
A good omen he came across
Yet, once again, with his cross-bow
He shot the albatross!

“Why?” Said I. And the mariner laughed.
“Time’s a circle, can’t you tell?”
“No!” Cried I, “but why, tell me,
Didst thou make the same mistake?”

The ancient mariner had to answer
And so he came a little closer
And to my heart with a silent whisper
He spoke… his final treasure!

On water I stood, ‘tis true.
Yes! So did Jesus, too.

***

I dreamt that I woke up from a dream
But in the dream of a dream I still
Hear the mariner scream: –
“Keep thy books for ever open, for we all deserve to live!
Even though we live to make – and tell! –
The same mistakes again.”

Chris Khatschadourian - In Sanity Q - Playroom

July 18, 2019: Start Again

Abandoning the book I’ve been working on for the last 10 years. Inhale, delete folder, exhale. This isn’t the easiest thing I’ve done. I’m not even sure if I’m doing the right thing. But I know I must move on.

It could have been a masterpiece. Too bad.

Yesterday, I started working on a new novel. I don’t have the whole plot planned out yet, but I was able to draft the first chapter in one day. I sent it to friends to get some feedback. Five out of seven already replied. Not bad. They like where this is going. So let’s see.

Ever since I have accepted that I am not a “writer”, I’ve been writing more. I’m no longer a perfectionist, and I can now actually get things done. So far, so good.

Every time you kill a dream, a new one is born.