Saturday, December 22, 2012

[This is just to give you an idea of what happens when I try to start writing a novel. It took me two and a half hours to write the following.]


Jonah washed his hands and felt alive. He stood at the tiny sink in his bathroom and washed his hands and watched his hands washing each other. Scrubbing, tumbling over each other, vigorously intertwining, his hands at that moment were more self-aware than any other part of him, including his brain. Such beautiful hands. What a relief it was to transfer consciousness to his hands for a few seconds and give his mind a rest. His mind was perpetually mired in the past or in the future, but his hands only cared about the present. Still, Jonah couldn’t keep time at bay for long. A song began unbidden in his mind:

You’re older than you’ve ever been
And now you’re even older
And now you’re even older
And now you’re even older
You’re older than you’ve ever been
And now you’re even older
And now you’re older still

He turned off the water and looked in the mirror. His hands didn’t mind being older, but they could afford not to, because they weren’t even aware of being older. That makes no sense, thought Jonah. He shook himself free from his trance and dried his hands (returned to their subordinate, unconscious state) on his roommate’s bath towel hanging from a hook by the door.
I’m 31, thought Jonah. I’m in my 32nd year.
He returned to his room and sat down in front of his computer. The browser was open to his Netflix Instant queue. He’d been trying to decide what movie to watch for the past hour and a half.

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