The downside of my ongoing blog cataloguing process is that I have to read a lot of this blog.
When you read a lot of these entries in quick succession, patterns begin to emerge. There are familiar rhythms and reference points, which mean that I'm starting to second-guess every word I write. Each sentence seems to be textbook "Me", and I worry that I'm predictable. If television shows tend to get stale after three or four seasons, what does that say about my 725-post blog?
We know what it says. It says "meh". And we hate it for saying that.
On the other hand, most people only read this intermittently. They've had time to rinse the taste of me out of their ears, so that each post is as fresh as an iced apple. An iced apple, right in the earhole.
No-one has the same issues with me that I do. Most people can't even remember my name. I'm very grateful for that, as it means I can wear my various stolen monogrammed blazers.
***
But enough about me (up to March 2009, there are 32 posts labelled "solipsism"). Let's write a story.
I'm thinking of taking part in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) this year, so I need practice.
And ideas. (I tried to workshop some for a similar initiative last year, and I can honestly say that I've thought of nothing else since)
A quick story warm-up (or "storm-up") will get me primed. I haven't been primed for a long time. I hope my priming shorts still fit.
So. Let's get rolling.
Typing. That's the ticket. Here it goes.
A story:
That's right. A story.
A post-colon story, coming your way next:
(By next, I mean after these brackets are closed. Brackets don't count.
I'm tired today. I should probably... Oh right! The story! Sorry, I forgot. Here it comes. Right after the closing bracket.
Which should be here any time now.
Yes.
Any time.)
The Easter Pageant was coming. There was an argument to be made for it.
Each year, the children of St Sebastian's put aside their pencils and paper, and focused their energies on making an Easter-themed argument. Traditionally, the argument had been quite a staid affair. Mr Nichols had insisted on keeping things subdued. The argument would be non-controversial: muted colours, safe subject-matter. It would usually involve a straw man making a frivolous egg request, and then being rebuffed by the public-minded citizens. The argument wouldn't last long.
It wasn't even much of an argument, to be honest. It was just a big grey rhetorical question, and the children hated having to put it together.
But Mr Nichols had retired the previous Christmas. His replacement, Ms French, had very different ideas.
"The Easter Pageant is coming," she said to the class. "There's an argument to be made for it."
They rolled their eyes (or would have, if they'd have been older).
"Mr Nichols has given me his notes." She took out a plastic-bound, laminated booklet. On the front were the words 'argument' and 'hand-over' and 'notes'.
Steven, who was small and a boy, sighed audibly. He was in the front row, but that's not uncommon.
Ms French smiled. She tipped the booklet out of her hand, and it landed in an unlined metal rubbish bin which went KLLANNGMMNH.
Some of the children gasped. Steven put his hands over his mouth in surprise. He must have seen it in a cartoon.
"There's an argument to be made, and we're going to make it," said Ms French, trying to raise the kids off their seats with her intonation. "But it's going to be a proper argument. There will be two sides. There will be issues raised. There will be crepe paper and bright balloons. There will not be an easy resolution."
Megan put her hand up.
"Yes Megan?"
"Miss," said Megan, almost bouncing. "Can we have an argument about..." (her voice dropped to a whisper) "...Jesus?"
Ms French smiled, then slightly opened her mouth before closing it again. Her eyes swept the room.
"Well," she said, raising her arms wide and open. "It is Easter, isn't it?"
The children cheered (or would have, if they'd have been younger).
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