Writing

Tectonic plates moved. A crack appeared. In it, a thought, which grew into a word. Which grew into an idea. I wrote, faster and faster until I could find no more words. Then I rested, ate. Later I wrote more, and more. Until I believed. This could work. I could show people how to write. No, not show them - write with them, write alongside them, write together. We would write and we would grow. People would be drawn to this idea - people who wanted to write and people who wanted others to write. The writing would go until more and more people were writing. This plan could work. This was my plan. I could do this.

I needed supporters to begin. I took my opportunity. The conversation stalled momentarily. I leaned forward, planted my idea in the crack. I have an idea. I talked, faster and faster. As I talked, the flow of words from my mouth became confident, concrete, certain. Syllables flew and I talked and he listened. I leaned forward and shut out the rest. I leaned forward and talked and looked into his eyes.

His lizard brain ticked over. Tongue flicked from the corner of his mouth, tasted the air. Slowly the eyes dulled. No profit in this idea. And in that instant the thought was dead. I put it away, sat back. The idea was dead. I would not write with others. I would be writing alone.

A.J. Cann