Richard Napalm

Stream of consciousness writing to help work around the mythical 'writer's block'.

It was the fourth time this week that Richard Millwright had sat at his typewriter unable to think of anything. Nothing at all would come to him; no plot twists or snappy dialogue, no sweeping vistas painted by his words or raging conflicts fought through the pages. The drive, determination, and skill were certainly all in Richard’s possession, but words would not come forth.

            He had begun to sink into the pit of self doubt. He just couldn’t write anything less than amazing, and since he could conjure nothing amazing nothing at all appeared on the page. Here he was, the great Richard Millwright, who thumbed his nose at all of those plebeians beneath him, yet he couldn’t write for fear of mediocrity. His work was stagnating and dying before him. His characters were dying without his life-giving touch. His world was crumbling without its creator. Journeys ended in the middle of the road.

            It was still raining outside. How long had the storm been going on? Who knew? The constant smashing of the rain was doing nothing to improve Richard’s concentration. It was enough to drive a man crazy, this pattering, pelting, rattling of falling water against glass. Smattering, splatting, spitting, and smacking. An assault upon Richard’s viewing portal by insolent rain drops. The clouds are trying to usurp the ground from its inhabitants. A revolution!

            A revolution…perhaps a bit played out. The oppressed rising up, the valiant rebels. Idealism triumphs. We’ve seen it before. No more of that. The bricks agree, none of that.

            Richard looked at his wall. It wasn’t a very exciting wall, just bricks. The only thing worth noting about it was that it was Richard’s only companion. Richard talked to his wall. Revolution... would they use napalm? I would.

 

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            Today was Richard’s day. This was the day that he was going to write something. He could feel it. The bricks haven’t been very helpful lately. Something was coming through. The dark figure sat in his dark room staring at the dark bricks in his dark wall. Quite fitting if I do say so myself. This dark man was learning to just give in. The bricks had been demanding it for quite some time now. “Just go with the flow man, just go with it!” they told him. He fidgeted slightly in his seat. “I just can’t be sure…” he muttered back to the wall. What a fickle minded man. Fickle mindedness isn’t merely isolated to just this man, either.     

            -Not very helpful at all. Go with the flow, what does that mean? Where will the flow take me? - A revolution perhaps…There really does need to be a revolution.

 

Open revolt: A revolt being open in nature; an unhidden rebellion; fighting in a clear field; fighting revolting revolting fighting rebellion revolution misbehavior acting out begging for attention

 

            Richard looked at the words he’d produced. A strange marriage of ink and paper, a b*****d child of half thoughts and uncertainties. Was that how his brain worked? Half thoughts and uncertainties? This character was so much like him in the few words that comprised him, yet he was nothing like Richard in any way. Who or what was this man?

            Richard undoubtedly considered himself an artist. His reader’s knew that he was an artist. But was what he’d just written art? Was this dark man in a dark room some sort of ironic, clichéd art? It would seem that the discussion “Is ___ art?” would automatically qualify the object of discussion as art. The next question to follow that would be, “Is it good art? Do I even care to pay it any more mind?” That was certainly up for debate. There was a definite charm to it though; the flow of thought to page without interruption or impedance was endearing in its own way.

 

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            The self doubt was lifting from Richard Millwright. His unnecessary over-criticism of himself was falling away from his troubled mind. An artistic revolution. I could lead it. Confidence was coming back to a man who had once crippled himself with the malignant cancer of elitism. The art of sex, beauty, nature, violence, bliss, anger. The revolution of the free minded and liberated. There’s stupidity around every corner. The slime and filth of the dull masses was raping the slime and filth of the pompous intellectual.  The world has turned out to be such a double-edged sword to me. I’ll surely be blasting my brains out over this for no reason. Why bother blowing our brains out for no reason? Do you know how small an atom is?

 

 Prophets cannot truly see the future. They trick the world into self fulfilling prophecies. Self fulfilling catastrophes. I have no patience for their kind.

 

 

The world ended at the soundless dawn. I call it: “A Damned Sort of Freedom”. Do you like it?