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THE_MIST
June 23, 2006
Being a writer was my goal in life,
during my mid-teens. To the extent
that I had any goals (outside of the
obvious ones).
Being an over-intellectualized
introvert, I was very interested Thankfully, I was a
in Kerouac's "spontaneous prose" little too smart for
ideas, and since I was frustrated the alcohol trap.
with blocked writing projects,
and a feeling that my life was
in a rut (at the age of 16),
I conceived of an experiment:
I would attempt to write a
mystery novel that took place The working title
in the framework of my life; I for this "mystery
would work fictional events novel" project And I haven't
into what had happened to became "The Mist". lost any of
me that day, and use the need my keen sense
for story material drive me in of clever
different directions in my wordplay.
actual life.
A day dream written
down in sequence,
A device to break
a set pattern of
behavior.
That particular
experiment ran into But was it really
some problems, of that silly a "If I want to go
course. scheme? Maybe around asking
I needed to take questions at
I was a kid who was it more seriously. random, I'll need
carefully keeping my a cover. Maybe I
head down in the should start an
long island suburban 'underground'
hell... there were school newspaper."
reasons for this. And however easy
it is to dismiss
The rut that I it all as
was living in was excessive shyness
only partially of at this distance... Those reasons
my own creation, weren't
much of it was necessarily
the usual school all that bad.
regimentation.
What are the odds
that I would
suddenly find ways And those reasons
to deviate from would be
this for *secret* incomprehensible
reasons? without lenghty
explaination, and
dismissed as
irrational or
insane once
explained.
It was the beginning of
"social studies" class.
There had been a fight I caught a glimpse
in the hall that people of it on my way in
were still talking about. the door: some
pudgy, nerdy kids
Things had calmed down, who weren't known as
and the bell had just fighters were going
rung, but the teacher at it, rolling
was still standing in around on the
the doorway. He floor.
mentioned that there was
actually blood on the Red-faced.
floor. Clumsy.
I stood up out of my seat,
walked across the room and
shouldered past him
momentarily to look down
the hall. He looked There was indeed,
momentarily stunned -- I a tiny little
was technically breaking puddle of blood,
the rules, and I wasn't bright red against
someone he'd expect to the drab greenish
push it. speckled tiles.
Then, as I returned to my The buckets of
seat, he commented, with blood disappeared
his usual cynical sarcasm, from my murder
"Yes, the sight of blood scene. That
usually does bring out the understated puddle
crowds." was so much better.
I smiled weakly and sat down, (But despite scenes
while the other kids were no of violence like
doubt wondering about my this, I still had
behavior -- I described briefly trouble believing
what I'd seen to the guy next in motives strong
to me. enough for high
school murders.)
(And retroactively
converted any curiosity
about me into curiosity
about the blood.)
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