The Languishing Unwritten Story

The last time I was on a plane, I finished reading First Person Singular by Haruki Murakami. It left me feeling light. The stories themselves felt unapologetically unsophisticated; I wanted to find meaning in the short stories that I’ve come to believe simply isn’t there. The stories in the book are simply that, stories. And, they’re wonderful.

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I started writing a letter

It’s been a long time since I’ve sat down to write. It feels like it’s been much longer than it should be. The pattern of my words is disjointed.​

But, tonight I fell into a familiar rhythm. After work, I stopped by the liquor store.


The lights are low, there’s familiar music playing loudly enough, and a beer’s sitting on a coaster. There’s a candle flickering. All of the things are in the right place.

This is where I come to write.

I’ve kept enough space for a good while now. I had to. I should’ve declined tonight’s invitation.

I started tonight’s writing with a letter that I’d love to send but never will. As I was writing, it stopped being a letter. It became an airing.

It’s more interesting to read than this post.


See, I want to be able to write when I’m sober but I can’t. I wrote a post about how it’s possible, but I was lying to you and to myself.

I want to be able to write when my words aren’t being swept into the spillway.