Shattered

The shattered glass scattered like cockroaches running from the light. I looked at the tiny shards which seemed to have gone impossibly far from where the dropped pyrex container fell from the freezer in the garage. I tried to calculate how glass could fly so far from such a short fall from a low shelf. This equation work seemed much more interesting than the unpleasantness of having to actually clean the broken glass from the garage floor. It took much sweeping, followed by two rounds of vacuuming, but i eventually got the broken container and glass shards into a garbage bag.

I began the walk to the garbage. got two steps. then the bag broke. Seems the Glaad kitchen bag is no match for sharp glass. After doing this process for a second time, and double bagging it, the job was done.

This sucked on an epic level. Mostly it sucked because I’m envisioning that tiny piece which escaped the second time to eventually lodge on my naked foot when I sleepily go out to the garage on some sunday morning.

This is what we do to our heroes in stories. We start them off in a fairly content situation. Then have something bad happen. Then have that bad thing get worse. We’ll create the illusion he’s solved the problem (the garbage bag). Then we’ll have the situation take a turn once again (the bag breaks).

We do this all day long. Taking characters in perfectly happy lives then we find a way to ruin it for them. Story telling is pretty cruel when you come right down to it.

Is this why most writers are tormented in one way or another? Creating pain and frustration can have that effect. We try to make it up to our characters by the end. We make them better people, their lives are enhanced in some way. Maybe even with a new love interest. But then, we’ll just go and do it to someone else.

We’re black clouds.

I think there’s a piece of glass in my toe.