A Story About a Man

I’ve always said that I plan to write a novel one day. Up to this point I have never had the where withal nor the fortitude to sit down and start it. I’ve had many ideas for a novella over the years, but I feel no story could be more provoking compelling or true to my nature than my own life story. I only hope for my own vanity that with my tendencies to ramble, this doesn’t turn out to be something of an anti novel in the same vein of Tristan Shandy because I found Laurence Sternes lack of direction in his writing to be far from charming and would go so far as to say that the book was nothing short of annoying. I don’t consider myself to be a connoisseur, but I do enjoy a good literary tale when time allows for it. My general preference being for books with adventure such as can be found in tales of King Arthur. My second fear in writing, this is that I am soiling my writing potential by overshadowing it with a subconscious full fill the same selfish desire for fame that my father had. Of course my father’s movie script has been the victim of many a joke between close friends and relations. Granted he may have been over ambitious in his pursuit versus his talents, but my personal feelings are that I have more respect for him because of his attempt. I often feel that because of his abstruse character, people often give him less credit than he’s earned. Even further, I feel that I have inherited this curse from him. I long to see the day when people give my character the recognition it warrants. Perhaps because of my father’s physiognomy people are often quick to judge him as callous and dimwitted. Perhaps when I see him, I’m still merely looking with children eyes looking at the predominant male model in his life, but looking at him I can’t help feeling effusions of love and admiration to the man chiefly responsible for who I am today. That being said, the previous statement is not by any means a positive one. The person I am today is one almost wholly consumed by melancholy to the point that it alienates me from other humans, preventing me from obtaining what I want most in life; happiness. This being the Truth, seeing happy carefree people can sometimes be far too much to bear. At the best of times it feels like swallowing freezing water and at the worst of times it sends me over the edge, forcing me into a state where I say and do things that I wouldn’t under other circumstances. This only serves to alienate me further from others. Seeing happy, loving couples is the worst for me since it only serves to remind me of the string of women that I’ve tried to fill my void of a heart with ever since Heather left me. I always told her that I’d hold her until the day I died. I wasn’t lying. A huge part of me died the day she left. Now I’ll hold girls-any girl- pretending that they’re her. But the life they give me isn’t lasting, and I’ve become like a vampire moving from one girl to another, taking what I need from them and casting them aside much soiled by the encounter. Now Heather’s with someone else, they’re in love. And I haven’t felt anything since she left. Why couldn’t she love me? That question weighs so heavily on what I have left of a heart that it’s all I can do to keep it from dragging on the floor. Between what she and my father took from I feel like nothing but a hideous Frankenstein. This I mean only metaphorically of course, the only thing I have to thank God for (if I were one to indulge in such beliefs) is my pleasing appearance. I wouldn’t say I’m Brad Pitt, but my features do have a very pleasing contrast and grace. This is fortunate for me because I use my appealing looks to blind women to my Frankenstein of a personality. Taking into consideration all that I’ve said, I feel that the reader will agree that my story is unique in that it deserves to be told and to be heard and far be it from me to with hold that.

…This is my story…