So far it's pretty bland. But every once in awhile I start to hear it. It just needs more Tabasco, or even just salt. (see don't you like how I jump back and forth between metaphor, I can't even commit to three sentences)
But I've been reading a lot of Writer's Digest lately and it (as well as Bird by Bird) suggest having others read your work and give feed back.
So this is me taking a big risk and putting something out there that I would usually hide. Because I trust you (the three or so of you who look at this). My only request is that you give me feed back. Real feedback, none of this "it was good" or "I read it". That isn't helpful and quite frankly is probably a lie. So I'm going to try this, I'm going to post a little part of one of the billions of things bouncing around my brain and computer. I know I will never be a McEwan, but here's to getting better.
Here's to wanting your honesty, honestly.
...
Morrow wiped the fog
from the mirror and leaned in. His damp hair hung in his eyes and his young
face looked tired, even though he’d been passed out for the last two days. The
long cut under his eye was still red and inflamed, although becoming more and
more scar-like every day.
“Are you sure it was an overdose?” he called out to his
friend as he discovered a greenish-purple bruise upon shaving.
“Yeah, you were still semi-conscious when I found you.
Why?”
“I’m all bruised,” Morrow called back, now turning in
front of the mirror noticing bruises along his ribs and side, even the spot on
his back above where his kidney would be.
“That’s from the fight the night before you overdosed.
Remember? That official seeming alleyway boxing ring?”
“Someone gave me a kidney shot,” he said incredulously,
still fastening his jeans as he walked across the living room to the kitchen,
“And I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, Martin.” He grabbed a pair of scissors and
reentered the bathroom.
“Cutting yourself isn’t the answer!” Martin called
without looking up from his magazine.
“I’m not depressed Martin, I’m crazy. They’re different,”
Morrow said nonchalantly as he began cutting random bits of hair.
“You’re not crazy. Well, you are crazy, but unfortunately
for me you are not medically diagnosable as insane—”
The scissors fell into the sink with a loud clang. Morrow
gripped the porcelain edges. His eyes closed too tight. The white walls around
him shook and tilted as the nurse approached him with the syringe. Restraints
held him flat to the bed.
“Morrow?” Martin’s concerned voice penetrated the memory
and pulled Morrow back into the reality of his brick-walled apartment. “Are you
okay?”
“I hate hospitals.”
“You’ve mentioned that. But you’ve never told me why.”
“And I won’t.” Morrow rubbed his eyes beneath the thick
rimmed glasses before returning to the random massacre of his hair.
“You look ridiculous,” Martin said, moving back toward
the living room.
“I’m not done yet!” Morrow trimmed a bit more and pulled
on a t-shirt, careful to mess up his hair as much as possible.
“You look like hell,” Martin announced, as Morrow
strolled into the room.
“I’m stunning. I know it, you know it, everyone I pass on
the street will know it in a minute; I don’t know why we even play this game
Martin. Now, I feel like I haven’t eaten in two days, let’s go.”
