Now the desk is cleared, the candle lit, the rituals complete and I sit in contemplation of my, no, our demise. The book taunts me as the first deadline draws closer and Michelle's submission plays in my head. I try not to look at it, not to let it sway me.
I never liked history, all the dates, the names, what seemed like constant memorization, the incessant digestion of supposed facts swirled around the relative perception of time. So why, you could ask, am I writing a story where I have become history. Who knows really, it seemed like an inspired idea at the time and there are these other incredible artists who gathered around it so here I am struggling with the concept of being gone with only one thing remaining. A story.
The Will Durant quote about how the story of civilization is played out on the banks of the river keeps coming to mind, and I am comforted by the mere concept of water. So there is my scene.
Can I trust the plot to the cockeyed genius sitting in the corner of the room? Maybe. We'll see.
Now off to write that first sentence which may or may not make it to the future but must exist in the present in order for me to write history.