How To Be A Writer

This is just being posted for the amusement of the intelligent, and for the instruction of the ignorant.

"How To Be A Writer"
by Rich Albertini

1. Know all the rules of the English language.
2. Break them.

The Sufficient

A quaint house built modestly for its location. The street Truth abounded in wealth; Roman arches, porticos, stone walls, and venerable showings of man's success and accomplishment. Yet, there the residence stood, a simple white Colonial, functionable, with obvious incongruity.

I had observed from my estate 'cross street that a trio inhabited the house. From their countenances, one could clearly notice their brotherhood. The lights on at all times, day and night, shining forth through the windows.

The eldest of the three wore the most meager awareness of him. His attire shoddy, torn by wear and hard work, yet he carried self most elegantly. Poised and confident, his facial structure shewed masculine exorbitance; his piercing blue eyes had an aptitude for the Truth. When he locked glances with another, one felt that he saw through the visage of grandeur so ever present on the street. He pitied these people, looking down on them from his tall stature, deconstructing their persons, to see the beaten core within.

Upon first meeting this gentleman, he firmly gripped in the handshake, said, "I will give you more than you thought possible."

The youngest was so radically different in every way, save the blatant family likeness. Although chronologically most youthful, his face had aged early, wrinkles running up and down the arches of his cheekbones. A diminutive man, he wore a sullen expression, his skin sallow and blanched; his blue eyes weary and soft, vulnerable. In terms of his gownery, he garbed himself in suits more lavish than all others on the ave. What he lacked in physical beauty was somewhat recompensed by his cloth. Nothing, however, could distract an onlooker from his most terrible limp.

I walked over to him on our first encounter, as hobbling appeared to cause him exceeding pain. He turned his eyes upward towards me, and whispered, "I will never give you enough."

Now, I apologize in advance out of necessity for my depiction of the third, middlemost brother; I cannot say that I have met this person, and can only deliver what the two brothers have relayed to me. As in any depiction of man, there were some nuantical variations in the two brothers' illustrations. "Portly" was the first word that came to the eldest's mind, "gaunt" to the youngest's. He always enveloped himself in throws, afghans, quilts, tautly wrapped. They could not present an account of his eye color; [they] always concealed by their gates above. The brothers could not, however, discount the peacefulness of demeanor he possessed, his mind adroit, adept, acute. He drank only water, and offered no more words than necessary.

Both brothers portrayed him in one way equal: "He only gives the sufficient."

The three of them worked the same job, different shifts. No two had ever been gone of the house at one time. From my porch, I could see the exchange of the job. Eldest in, youngest out. Youngest in, eldest out. I cannot say, though, that I have once seen the medium exit for such an endeavor.

Time as a passing wind sweeps through, gradual slow change sets forth. Yet, this cycle of work continued. And never had I caught a glance of this third, middlemost brother.

I stumbled upon caprice. My thoughts sharply turned, pivoting, focusing, deadsighting this man. Would the man of sufficiency ever step out his door? Pass his window? To the veranda I took, it vacillating easily from side to side as my faith. Stargazing to his adobe. Limiting my mind to this singular opportunity I may have. The encounter: possibility? or mere fancy?

Day. Day. Day. Day. Nothing. My hope, ever evanescent, quickly faded into its own oblivion. I thought myself foolish, a child overcome with religious excitement, and began to doubt the veracity of my brethren.

As moons passed and the visage of our street morphed, there appeared change notable in our youngest and eldest brothers. The youngest, although still appearing sullen, had gained a more desirable complexion, and could tolerate, to a degree, the agony of his twisted leg. The elder had grown tired in age, now had wrinkles forming across his brows.

It could be found at this point that the brothers had now more than ever resembled one another. As if they were one being, their contrast so vibrant and visible beforehand now turned to blurred gray. Even the variances in attire they had enjoyed previous converted to more agreeable simplicity.

Much to my surprise, they had made an appearance at my doorstep in time. Before I answered the door, I made a last-ditch hopeless effort to tidy up the estate, as I did not seek to offend any man with any unintentional incorrectness of my nature, so easily observed by what men keep in residence. However, (and much to my fortune) they had only ventured upon me to speak of their departure from the street Truth. The two of them would depart tomorrow, leaving their middlemost brother behind.

So it was done, and I never saw the two of them again.

The residents of the street Truth had seen what had come to pass, and decided to call assembly. I as a man most reasonable wondered what topic of discussion could possibly spring; the answer came to me as quickly as light: the colonial must be destroyed.

Long had they loathed the form that the brothers' place had taken. Now that none inhabited it, the men believed it served best that every trace of it be decimated. From gruesome, they sought the end of glory. I could not object to this, as I too detested the countenance this excuse for an edifice gave to me.

The day passed, night arrived, and the men as well. In tow were wheelbarrows carrying volumes of knowledge. Of novels, poetry, geometry, sciences, history, documents, and so on. A single flame followed in its wake, toted in torch by the youngest child present.

The knowledge was lined up against the walls of this most pathetic architectural achievement, circumscribing it in two rows. The child walked forth with resolution, as his parents instructed him to do, and set flame down at the doorstep. In seconds fractured, the entire structure was embraced by a ring of fire. In profound wailing, the flames did their work and began their ascent to the heavens.

I kept half-heartedly expecting to hear the screams of man coming from within. But no noise came. Just the dull roar of our success in deconstructing what no longer fit us. The ashes flew through the air, scattering themselves on our rooftops, our lawns, and our heads. At first, I had wanted to flee in fear of these droplets, but they came with a gentle touch.

Back to my own estate I looked, glancing down the street Truth, and I found what I could not have seen before. In a dim, ghastly, red light our houses were adorned. Beautiful, haunting, simple, hideous. I could not describe the exhilaration my emotions felt, dragged in a thousand different directions by this single sight, harmonious and dissonant.

And here my mind moved to harp on the lament for the man no one ever saw, nor no man ever knew. There was no funeral. There were no tears. For we never saw that man live, nor die. And I think it is reasonable to say that he has been but a myth, and has never existed.

FINIS

Fatigue

We're all going to kill ourselves, guaranteed. I say this not because politicians angry about being gipped out of the presidency years ago are pointing out the possibility of creating an incidental inferno of an Earth (business makes it such an inferno anyway); not because we as Americans have gone into mental depression more serious than that of the 1930's; not for the fact that Pluto is not longer a planet.

We are killing ourselves simply because we are sleeping too much every night.

Now, do not misunderstand me. I am not telling you not to sleep. I am telling you to reduce the amount of sleep you get to the bare minimum. Great men, like Jay Leno, have subsisted successfully with less than four hours of sleep each passing.

Consider this: With the amount of time so sordidly consumed by "peaceful" slumber, one could be purchasing lottery tickets, reading the plays of homicidal maniacs, considering the possibility of forgiving a radio talk show host, donating funds to those struggling for a trip to Canada, and so much more. Many precious moments are missed during times of rest.

As an American living in a free democracy, you are given certain rights to choose, a phenomena not observed in other parts of the world, i.e. Poland. Choose to sleep so minimally, that life becomes more present within your mind. The higher parts of the brain are stimulated during waking hours, and close off in rem.

I mostly humbly ask you, the reader, to seize both the day and the night. This is the only way you will ever feel alive, and it is the sole solid proof that you are not suicidal, and do not wish for death.