Late Night Thought and Some Writing

I was having a conversation with my friend Ben the other day regarding writing. I had picked up an issue of Writer's Digest and had been thumbing through the articles when he stopped by the house. He is working on his Master's in English, which involves writing a novel. While we were talking, I happened upon a passage of advice in which the columnist stated that it was more important to write something down than to write something polished.

I realized at that point that I had been focusing too much on writing a polished piece of work rather than simply getting the story down onto paper. As such, I've decided that once in a while I will throw up excerpts from bits I'm writing on here. There is no promise you will be able to read a finished product of the given story...but at least I'm putting some writing up!

A TEXT UNTOLD

Bentley Square was a commotion, primarily due to the Bendenshire Theater's opening of the new Vlamatti play, ' Barathrum'. From my third story apartment I could hear the clopping and rattling of horse drawn carriages as drivers chauffeured the rich and powerful to what would be a critically acclaimed evening. I watched from my window as they maneuvered down the cobblestone street and pulled around to the grand entrance of Bendenshire Theater. The occupants of the carriages, dressed in lavish attire, were there greeted by the head usher, Barth Grove. Barth was an acquaintance of mine, for he lived on the floor below my own and we had shared a drink or two at the Third Tier many a time. Tonight he was dressed in his brilliant blue uniform, complete with the almost military looking cap.

A finer looking gent tonight there is not, Barth, I thought as I allowed a brief smile before turning my back on the events and stepping back to my desk.

I was in my study, a small room which also served as my sleeping quarters. My bed was a thin mattress with a few well aged blankets and a slowly leaking feather pillow. Truth be told, despite it’s ragged appearance, I rarely used it this time of year. Autumn brought with it wretched fits of insomnia, an illness that had plagued me since childhood. Lacking sleep had provided me with a lithe figure and I often found myself wracked with a cough in the winter.

There was a cure of sorts. As I sat down, my eyes drifted to the top right drawer of my desk. Within was a small bag containing a spot of tobacco that I had mixed with opium. Truth be told, it was more like opium flavored with a bit of tobacco. The trance I fell into after subjecting myself to a few puffs on my pipe was surreal, though it was the deep slumber which came afterwards that I sought after. I tried to keep clear of the small bag, however, for Madeline very much hated it when she found me under it’s hypnotic spell.

Not tonight, however. Despite the little voice in the back of my mind telling me I could use a puff, tonight there was far too much work to be done. Atop my desk was a small, leather bound book, resting on the brown paper wrapping it had been mailed to me in. It had only come into my possession that morning, sent by a Mister Jonathan R. Irewood along with twenty imperial notes as payment. The task I was to undertake was a translation of the given text.