Another Exercise

I'm almost done with that other exercise (my dream story), but in the meantime I present to you an exercise assigned by a friend in New Jersey. The limit was 500 words, and the theme was "empty glasses." In twenty minutes, this is what I came up with (strangely enough it is exactly 500 words):

The Empty Glass

The empty glass stood there like an accusation. It must have held something once. There was a multitude of possibilities of what the glass held, why it held it, for whom, and when it was once filled. The permutations were mind-boggling. And thus it accused him, he who was staring at the glass and thinking of the possibilities.

What if it hadn’t held anything? The thought made him smile one of those shy, sly smiles that only can be seen in the eyes at the right angle when the light was just perfect. Not too dark; not too light. If the glass had held nothing, as it was holding now, then there wouldn’t be a problem, would there? There was no plot, no story, just a stasis that was as endless as the possibilities of what the glass should have held had it held anything.

No. The glass held something. He was sure of it. He couldn’t succumb to this overwhelming urge to reduce everything to some kind of inductive nihilism that, once it was injected into the mind like some kind of cocaine laced heroine, was as addictive and necessary as the air itself, as the water that was only just one possibility of what was once held in that air-filled vacuum that stared at him back, accused him totally, made him cringe at all the infinitudes he ever read about—the worlds within words within worlds. Everything. Everything and nothing was in that glass now, and everything and nothing was in that glass once. He stopped his eyesmile.

Was there residue? Prima facie there were no apparent markings that could indicate what, if anything, the glass had held. There were no water marks, no evaporated soda residue, no faint whiff of dried up vodka. He could easily—the empty glass was within reach—lift the glass and inspect it closely to ensure the accuracy of his initial observations, but there was something sacrosanct about the glass, as if it had become some kind of dead idol in a temple of long ago where the glass would hold the libations for gods that no one worshipped anymore nor cared about nor thought even existed. The glass had become an artifact.

But why? Why was he here staring at the glass, staring at the base of it to see if there were water marks on the oaken unvarnished desk which propped up the glass as Atlas propped up the globe in ether-filled space? The possibilities here were infinite. There were more explanations than he wanted to enumerate, and they were all as empty to him as the glass was void of liquid. But there was the gas. Surely air filled the glass now. It existed. But some things, he suddenly felt in the back of his spine as if it had been injected there, existed and yet were empty. This epiphany shot up to his mind and emptied it of everything that he was thinking about.

The glass accused him.

More Thoughts on Writing

Writing used to be an art. I do not mean "writing" the idea, but "writing" the physical act. Scribes and scriveners, illuminated manuscripts and calligraphy: writing was done with such care and precision that every word mattered, down to each letter. It was a painstaking and expensive process; a single mistake and the whole page had to be redone.

This attitude is completely gone now. The computer has made writing easier, so much so that I doubt anyone enjoys the act of putting pen to paper, let alone the curves of a letter. With this ease comes a lax attitude towards a word's appearance, which transforms (quite easily) to a carelessness for the word, which would then lead to an ambivalence to the idea which the word represents.

Of course, that series does not necessarily logically follow. I simply notice this trend. Simply because a writer cares about the appearance of a letter or word does not entail that he cares any more for the idea behind the word than one who is not so focused on appearances. Many scribes and copyists did not know the languages they were writing in and therefore did not have the slightest idea of what they were reproducing. So caring for the looks of a word does not always mean an interest in language, but it still means something.

The writer's interest in the font and style of individual letters and words belies the social condition the writer is in: those that read would like to look at beautifully written language because they want the written word to physically reflect the ideas the words represented. That is the attitude I am most concerned about, and it is one that I believe is obsolete. There is no effort in making language look beautiful because it is so easy to make it look consistent and nice. I do not know of anyone that concerns himself with which font to use, or has a favorite font or style of writing. I do not know if calligraphy is even offered in school anymore. Words are merely tools now, tools that convey messages or one's meaning without making the reader stop to think about the words themselves. Even in fiction, where writing (the idea) is at its highest form of art, the word is simply a unit to produce an effect, emotion, thought, or (dare I say it?) a lesson. The actual words themselves--their appearance and style--is inconsequential. These are simply cast off as aesthetic choices, with no function beyond the form.

This is not to say that I am against the ease and consistency of typing from computers. The printed word is easier to read than handwriting (but handwriting used to be beautiful when it was the most convenient form of communication), and, for writing professors and publishers, it must be a huge relief to have something consistent and legible. But the trade-off to this ease is that it is now extremely difficult to put your stamp on the English language. Your choice of how you want your writing to look is relegated to what font selection is available. That, in a way, is a sad loss.

I note this not for any desire to go back to those medieval days where secluded monks spent hours upon hours copying books and illuminating manuscripts, but simply for my select readers to think about the looks of things, and whether the appearance should reflect what is beyond its face. We should do so because--and these thoughts sometimes occur to me--I believe that an attention to detail demonstrates an attention to the general. This is not always true, but if you can show that you care that much for something, then you must care about the larger picture. It is difficult to have a clean room if you do not know how to organize it or do not know what to do with the trash.

Again, these are just thoughts, things that float around in my head that are imperfect, wishful, and not necessarily useful.