Last week I decided to write at least a sentence a day, every day, for the whole week. There were no other parameters – the sentences didn’t have to be about any specific thing or reach any specific length. They just had to get written.
April 6, 2024
Saturday
My roommate is out and I haven’t spoken to anyone all day. I did say “oh” out loud to myself when I clicked on some yarn and found out it costs $40 a skein. I’ve sent 46 text messages.1
Sunday
I haven’t written a short story since 2022. I reread one that I never published and am dissatisfied with it. I’m often dissatisfied with my shorter writing. There’s something too limiting about it – like I don’t have enough room to really sink into the story. When I’m writing a play or a novel it’s not until I get to the end of the first draft that I finally figure out what the thing is supposed to sound like. I have to stumble through a lot of words before I find my footing. (Probably this means that I need to spend more time on my short stories, but honestly I just don’t like them that much.)
Monday
The solar eclipse is today. I don’t have the special glasses, and neither do any of my neighbors, but we sit on our stoops and wait for the peak anyway. When the moment finally comes, there are too many clouds to see the sun. We trickle back into our houses without speaking. Rarely do you get treated to a cosmic disappointment.
I listen to Total Eclipse of the Heart six times.
Tuesday
My roommate Heather and I are playing Midnight In Salem, the widely hated most recent Nancy Drew game. We spend forever decrypting a note only to find out it’s a to-do list, inexplicably written in code.
“What the fuck was the point?” Heather says.
Wednesday
It’s the kind of day where I feel like I’m just slipping through life, waiting for something to happen.
Thursday
I know I want something, but what do I want?
Friday
It makes sense to me that so many writers are recluses. You spend enough time alone with your thoughts and they all start to seem significant.
Saturday, Again
I finish reading a book about a man who has forgotten who he is. A few minutes later I turn on the radio and hear a story about a girl with an unusually detailed memory. The girl describes the burden of never being able to forget certain moments. The radio host picks a random date several years ago and the girl says she gave a presentation in English class that day and had beef stroganoff for dinner.
What makes us who we are? If we’ve forgotten everything, are we still ourselves? And since memory rarely goes all at once, at what point of forgetting do you stop being you?
My grandma developed Alzheimer’s when I was very young. I assume she forgot me, but the ironic truth is that I can’t remember. I have no painful memories of her, just a vague sense of her presence and an image of the garden behind her house. Here’s another question about memory: how do you grieve someone you can’t remember?
A heavy place to end things maybe, but Saturday marks a full week’s worth of sentences. This was an interesting challenge, forcing me to reflect on days that didn’t feel particularly noteworthy and find something to say about them. I may do it again. For now, though, that’s it.
xoxo,
Franny💋🗓
I received 62 text messages #popular