Opening paragraphs....

[Blue William]

Waking up I realize that I am late for nothing. I pull myself out of bed, go to the bathroom, sit at my desk and do a line of coke. Staring at my blank G4 laptop screen, nothing is coming from my fingertips and the line is not providing any lubrication. Focusing in through the edge of the coke I play the Stokes on my stereo to try and find a rhythm, an angle. The story develops and I begin to see the frame of it. It is largely autobiographical and covers the misadventures of a weekend wedding on Martha’s Vineyard. I expect that its arc will culminate in some sort of emotional paralysis. I stop, read it, and in my disappointment I delete it. The main character doesn’t really develop and I hate thinking about the Vineyard.

I have been trying to produce a piece of fiction for a month and have little to show for it. I open a website dedicated to “literary smut” to look for fringe ideas for a story, something outside my parameters. I decide to call Amanda to make plans for that night.

[eyes lock hi]

if you have to try you're not a writer

do something else

i am an idiot.

this is what i do.

[Zyle]

[eyes, I believe this was the beginning of a story...]

[Blue William]

Yes it is...

[nycwriters]

Waking up I realize that I am late for nothing. I pull myself out of bed, go to the bathroom, sit at my desk and do a line of coke. Staring at my blank G4 laptop screen, nothing is coming from my fingertips and the line is not providing any lubrication. Focusing in through the edge of the coke I play the Stokes on my stereo to try and find a rhythm, an angle. The story develops and I begin to see the frame of it. It is largely autobiographical and covers the misadventures of a weekend wedding on Martha’s Vineyard. I expect that its arc will culminate in some sort of emotional paralysis. I stop, read it, and in my disappointment I delete it. The main character doesn’t really develop and I hate thinking about the Vineyard.

I have been trying to produce a piece of fiction for a month and have little to show for it. I open a website dedicated to “literary smut” to look for fringe ideas for a story, something outside my parameters. I decide to call Amanda to make plans for that night.

She's not home when I call, so I leave a message. I think about calling again and cancelling, but I stop myself before my fingers reach the buttons on the phone.

Staring out the window, I can see a woman undressing in the apartment directly across. It's almost as if she knows she's being watched, because she's stretching and pausing a little bit too long before the window. Bra and panties. That's it. No blinds, open windows, soothing jazz music drifting across Avenue A.

But it's hot outside. Maybe it's just me that seems obvious and she's not really aware that she's being watched. Some people go through life oblivious, others see every painful detail. Maybe that's my problem.

[Red Princess]

Waking up I realize that I am late for nothing. I pull myself out of bed, go to the bathroom, sit at my desk and do a line of coke. Staring at my blank G4 laptop screen, nothing is coming from my fingertips and the line is not providing any lubrication. Focusing in through the edge of the coke I play the Stokes on my stereo to try and find a rhythm, an angle. The story develops and I begin to see the frame of it. It is largely autobiographical and covers the misadventures of a weekend wedding on Martha’s Vineyard. I expect that its arc will culminate in some sort of emotional paralysis. I stop, read it, and in my disappointment I delete it. The main character doesn’t really develop and I hate thinking about the Vineyard.

I have been trying to produce a piece of fiction for a month and have little to show for it. I open a website dedicated to “literary smut” to look for fringe ideas for a story, something outside my parameters. I decide to call Amanda to make plans for that night.

She's not home when I call, so I leave a message. I think about calling again and cancelling, but I stop myself before my fingers reach the buttons on the phone.

Staring out the window, I can see a woman undressing in the apartment directly across. It's almost as if she knows she's being watched, because she's stretching and pausing a little bit too long before the window. Bra and panties. That's it. No blinds, open windows, soothing jazz music drifting across Avenue A.

But it's hot outside. Maybe it's just me that seems obvious and she's not really aware that she's being watched. Some people go through life oblivious, others see every painful detail. Maybe that's my problem. [/b][/quote]

I see it all, every tiny little nuance that other people miss. They jump out at me, those details and bite me, and they stop me.
I sit frozen at the keyboard despite the heat. I decide to do another line of coke to thaw my brain out...
The phone rings.

[nycwriters]

Waking up I realize that I am late for nothing. I pull myself out of bed, go to the bathroom, sit at my desk and do a line of coke. Staring at my blank G4 laptop screen, nothing is coming from my fingertips and the line is not providing any lubrication. Focusing in through the edge of the coke I play the Stokes on my stereo to try and find a rhythm, an angle. The story develops and I begin to see the frame of it. It is largely autobiographical and covers the misadventures of a weekend wedding on Martha’s Vineyard. I expect that its arc will culminate in some sort of emotional paralysis. I stop, read it, and in my disappointment I delete it. The main character doesn’t really develop and I hate thinking about the Vineyard.

I have been trying to produce a piece of fiction for a month and have little to show for it. I open a website dedicated to “literary smut” to look for fringe ideas for a story, something outside my parameters. I decide to call Amanda to make plans for that night.

She's not home when I call, so I leave a message. I think about calling again and cancelling, but I stop myself before my fingers reach the buttons on the phone.

Staring out the window, I can see a woman undressing in the apartment directly across. It's almost as if she knows she's being watched, because she's stretching and pausing a little bit too long before the window. Bra and panties. That's it. No blinds, open windows, soothing jazz music drifting across Avenue A.

But it's hot outside. Maybe it's just me that seems obvious and she's not really aware that she's being watched. Some people go through life oblivious, others see every painful detail. Maybe that's my problem.

I see it all, every tiny little nuance that other people miss. They jump out at me, those details and bite me, and they stop me.

I sit frozen at the keyboard despite the heat. I decide to do another line of coke to thaw my brain out...

The phone rings.

Fifteen minutes later and I'm down on the corner, waiting for the car to arrive. He hates coming up and always makes me go downstairs and wait. Lazy bastard.

I look up at the apartment building across from mine and see that the woman in the window is no longer there, replaced instead by a rather smug looking calico cat.

I'm smoking a cigarette and hitching up my pants when the car comes around the corner. I can feel sweat trickle its way from the back of my neck to the cleft in my butt.

[Blue William]

Inside the car I roll up my window as I pass the fruit stand where I sometimes buy fruit, fruit that never gets eaten. The guy I get it from likes sports and keeps me up to date.

“I feel awful today,” I say feeling the my sweat sink into the car seat , “professional supervision might be called for, or at least an intervention.”

"Wrong ride, then," says Clay. "Anyway you'll be fine in about half an hour. Some lunch, some drinks."

That was Clay's answer to just about anything, and to be fair he did have a point.

"Where is she?" I ask.

"West, at Pastis."

It was hard to feel that anything was deeply wrong in the world over a fine lunch, with no rush and Clay's credit. We park on Little West 12th.

“Well, hello here.” Sal says sweetly, “Shall I order for the group?” her voice is sweet and smooth as iced tea.

Lifting her head to the waitress who is walking by, she orders “We’ll have three Mojitos please….Oh, and some of those Fries. Thank you,” stretching the long ‘o.’

Turning to me “I hate when they call then frites. How was last night” she asks punctuating her question with a brush on my arm.

“Made Dean Martin look like a amateur; might have found the ninth level of hell.”

“Well, well… Good boy!”

Menus arrive.

[nycwriters]

The restaurant is great for locals during the day, but at night it became a haven for the UES crowd; painfully thin and trying to look hip. So much neurosis in one room -- you begin to think you need a therapist. Money can't buy them out of their problems. Faustus would laugh at their predicament.

"Sal's got a way of making you think you stand a chance, doesn't she?" I asked Clay, my gaze following the stunning brunette floating gracefully across the restaurant.

He nodded, a smile playing upon his lips, but he wasn't really listening.

He was looking at the room, and sizing up his plans for the evening. There was a cute blonde over in the corner, alone, reading a book. She was pretending not to be uncomfortable in her solitude, but her gaze out the window at the people passing in the street and her shifting her legs every two minutes indicated otherwise. She kept unconsciously pulling down at the hem of her short skirt as if her mother was watching and would disapprove of her choice of clothing.

Catholic girl. Definately.

He looked at me and gave a casual nod in her direction. I had noticed her when I walked in.

I didn't bother to reply. I knew what he was thinking.

I had Amanda. Well at least I thought I had Amanda. It was an on-again off-again affair, so typical of New York City. With so many new people landing every day, it was so distracting.... in a delightful kind of way.

Suddenly Sal reappears distracting me with drinks.

[Blue William]

"Here we are," says Sal, "how is the work going?"

"Its pretty shit actually.” I said, hating the exposure but unable to stop myself. “Apparently the only way that I’ll be able to write again is if I do so in bullet point format. The last eight years have sucked every creative, linguistic molecule from my body.”

“Those that can’t teach, and those that have money and can’t …well, they collect. “ Says Sal; adding, “maybe your new photography habit is the thing - you know, softer, less art history to catch up on.”

“And those that can create go nuts, torture their friends, family and then drown, shoot themselves or overdose.” Clay says, “It seems to be a prerequisite. Your not exactly the tormented type.”

“No one interesting has killed themselves since Kurt Cobain,” I say. “That’s over. Do you think Mario Testino is up at night worrying about place as an artist in society?”

Sensing my mood Clay offers me: “Its probably the prevalence of Prozac. Look, its not so bad really, things will swing back, we’ll be busy again and you’ll find a company that you really want to work for.”

“I need a strong fiction piece for the application but am ****ed for ideas.”.

Clay challenges me, “What’s the maxim? Write what you know. Why don’t you do that?”

I laugh and slip into the main argument from my MFA application essay on the generational novel. “First, what I know isn’t all that interesting; and, the topic of “us,” “our generation” is the hardest of possible topics. The only people that really tackle it are journalists, and they usually deliver only glancing blows at isolated pieces of it. To write about something; from within the same period, whether its yours or not…that’s the brass ring.

Let me bring you up to speed on the current sate of literature, English 101. The 20th Century Novel, from an American WASPY/preppy perspective – ours - goes something like this: We’ve got The Great Gatsby for the roaring 20s; Papa’s The Sun Also Rises to capture the disillusionment of post the WW II generation; the 50s were a bit light on decent work with the exception of Catcher in the Rye early on - granted more adolescent than a generational representation. Things then became more counter cultural with On The Road; the 60s had To Kill a Mockingbird and largely relied on the beat writers that established themselves in the 50s; I’m not too sure on the 70s – that was weird enough with Wings and all - but you have Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and in the eighties I’d point toward Bright Lights Big City or Less Than Zero – though Ellis’ later stuff cosies up to the self indulgent side of things."

I suck down my drink pick a leaf of mint off my tooth and try to keep my mind off Sal.

[nycwriters]

"Yeah," said Clay, "but wasn't it "Catcher" that was found on every single serial killer since time immemoriam? You need to let go and ... just write."

I sighed and picked up Clay's drink. I downed it in one shot, only hearing him curse me.

"There's something in me that needs to come out," I said. "But I'm not sure what. It's there. There are mornings when I wake up and I can literally taste it, but when I try to put words to paper, it vanishes like that invisible ink you'd get as a kid. Lemon juice. Who'd have known?"

Clay rolled his eyes and resumed his gaze of the blonde in the corner.

He was a good friend, but get a woman in there, and there was no point talking to him. Kind of like lecturing a drunk on the fundamentals of not drinking. Women were like air to him.

Just breathe.

I grabbed the local newspaper and thumbed through it.

[Blue William]

I look through the paper seeking a good story to ride on but it is all distant from me, my experience and my world. I'm seeing everything now through the lens of my story. Who am I if not the main character. Dissapear here.

I confess to loving it here, this place and NY. Not crowded yet, drinks are forth coming, but I run into too many people I know. In NY there is never a new page, a new story - it is all derivation, too many perspectives flowing through this city.

"Yeah I keep thinking about what that writer said in his Observer interview 'just shut the **** up and throw it down.'"

Quite drunk and happier, I call for the bill and settle up. “See you later at Cielo” I say. “I’m meeting Amanda for dinner before.”

Sal steps ouside following her ringing phone.

"So, glad I introduced you to Sal." I say, drawing him out.

"She is something, too bad you have Amanda. She is way out of my league."

"You are getting smarter as you get older."

"Just focusing on my 'core competencies' as you would say"

"In a former life, maybe."

Clay's core competencies were those girls that would look at his name, his house, but not get in too deep. I've seen his moves and if he was a boxer he'd be smoother than Ali.

Sal walked back in, picked up more drinks and ploped them on the table.

"One last round for the group"

Clay and I had known eachother since high school but now the dynamic was different. Now there was Sal.

_____________

[nycwriters]

I remember that rainy night Clay and I had met Sal. She was soaking wet, her black chemise dress clinging to her in all the right places. Even with mascara running down her face, she was mesmerizing.

Clay and I had come out of Indochine, elbowing our way through several delicate asian dishes and even more Sapuro.

Stumbling out the door, we saw this woman, laughing hysterically and kicking up puddles in some very high heels, alone. She didn't seem to care that it was raining; and that was part of the magic of her.

Everything she touched brought a smile, a playful poke, a constant flirtation that never really went anywhere.

Clay, of course, tried his moves first -- but from the moment she noticed us watching her, she never took her eyes from mine.

She smiled and pulled her gaze away and kicked a puddle in our direction.

[nycwriters]

I wanted to revive this because it's one of my favourite stories on here and I think it could really go somewhere.

"You better get out of the rain or you'll catch your death!" I yelled across the street at the lanky brunette.

She flashed me a brilliant smile and then tilted her face up to the rain, as if to greet it, tongue out, twirling in circles.

"Is she drunk or just crazy?" Clay whispered in my ear.

"I dunno," I grinned. "Let's go find out."