Something big was moving. and nobody even knew what it was.
What was worse was that nobody even knew how they knew. Whatever it was reflected no light, emitted no sound, and had no scent.
Nobody had ever touched or felt it, and yet it left blades of grass bent in its wake, and puddles of water splashed from the impact of its heavy tread.
All the witnesses – and there were many, as what the media dubbed The Presence traversed the land – could tell you is that they had experienced a sudden and terrifying feeling that something massive and alive was nearby, like they had felt the breath of a dinosaur on the back of their necks, only without so much as a slight breeze.
At first, reports were scattered and unreliable, and most people just made note of them in passing and waited patiently for the inevitable reasonable explanation.
And the scientists tried, albeit halfheartedly. Phrases like “mass hysteria” were tossed around irresponsibly, and random mutterings about “gravitic fluctuations” and “magnetic lava flows” flew around the Internet like homesick carrier pigeons.
In fact, it wasn’t until the trickle of reports became a deluge that anyone started taking the phenomenon seriously at all. People began frantically compiling statistics on the reports, trying to figure out what and where the damned thing was.
And one thing rapidly became apparent : there were enormous gaps in the coverage obtained this way. Clearly the number of people experiencing the phenomenon without reporting it to anyone vastly outnumbered the number of those who called it in.
Everyone agreed that this was a problem.
But it wasn’t until an Icelandic app developer released an app called Skrímslaveiðimaður (Monster Hunter) that tracked the Presence automatically that the data became more complete.
The Google Play and Mac stores were slammed with more traffic than they could handle within minutes of the app being released. Truly heroic levels of emergency colocation and rehosting of files were employed to try to stem the tide, and even then people had to wait up to an hour for their download.
This led to considerable tension and unrest. Already, those who had not yet experinced the Presence were bitterly jealous of those who had.
This delay only made things worse.
But then, a programmer in Sri Lanka added a “send a copy to a friend” option to the app (now called “Skrim” by the cool kids) and that solved the problem, or at the very least, spread the blame around.
The Skrim data set was much richer, and the picture it painted was a puzzling one.
The Presence seemed to be taking a tour of all the major (and many minor) urban centers of population in the world. It was as though it was on a mission to encounter the maximum number of humans it possibly could in a limited period of time.
Based on that assumption, a rough idea of its future path was put together, and for the rest of its stay, the Presence would follow that path like it was its itinerary.
When it disappeared, reaction was mixed. Some were relieved that it was all over and life could go back to normal now. Others were disappointed for the exact same reason.
But that was not to be, because a few hours after the Presence exited, a great gleaming spaceship the size of a shopping district landed with total precision on the lawn of the White House, and from it descended three elegant, delicate aliens of great beauty and grace descended at a stately pace.
Then one of them detached from the other two, came forward, and spoke in tones of incredibly paternalistic affection when it said, “People of Earth. It is our finest pleasure to finally meet the people we have… ”
“What’s the deal with the Presence?” cried a voice in the crowd.
Billions of eyes were riveted to the lead alien, who seemed confused. Rapid, whispered explanations soon made it to the lead alien.
“You mean to tell me… ” , the alien incredulously asked, “… that you people could actually tell our… um, machine was there?”
A sea of nodding assent from around the globe.
The alien frown, and looked to its two compatriots. Then back to the audience.
“Well…. shit. ” said the alien.
I’ve done it again, haven’t I?
People are gonna want to know what happens next and I dunno. For me, that is where the story ends, making the whole thing kind of a joke.
And I’m very very unlikely to go back and add to it, because as patient readers know, one of the occasionally maddening quirks of my particular muse is that I never go back.
This car has no reverse gear. I can only go forward to the next thing, or do nothing at all. Those are my only options.
And so by any writing instructor’s standards, I write like a lunatic. I do everything wrong. No outline, no notes, no rewrites, no polish. It’s all wrong. Wrong to the point that many would think that it is impossible that my quality of writing results from it.
It’s like the Triple Fried Egg Cheese and Chili Chutney Sandwich.
Nothing I do should work. But it does.
And I can’t really explain it. All I can figure is that maybe my methods maximize internal freedom and flexibility in a way that lets me do thing intuitively and naturally that others have to do consciously and methodically.
I certainly wouldn’t recommend my methods to anyone else. Don’t try to write like your old pal Uncle Fru kids. It ain’t gonna work.
The only way I would even attempt to teach someone to write like I do is if they are feeling crushed and oppressed by all the advice and rules and structure and other nonsense people fill young writers’ heads with on “how to do it”.
I’ve been there. It sucks.
To them, I would talk about how none of that stuff really matters. There are legendary writers who couldn’t even spell, let alone observe all the “rules” of paragraph structure. They too did everything “wrong” and still became canonized because what really matters is whether or not you have something worth saying.
Formally perfect nothing is still nothing. One cannot fumble one’s way to genius via method. Method is crap compared to actually knowing what you are doing and having something worth contributing to the world.
So if the usual formal way of learning the creative arts ain’t working for you, don’t sweat it. Do the things that will get you the piece of paper that can get you jobs, and on your own, throw the rulebook out and do whatever works for you.
Because it’s not your instructors that are the boss of you.
It’s your muse.
Give that bitch whatever the hell she wants. Feed her and treat her well, and she will lay her golden eggs for you.
And to hell with anything and anyone else.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.