I'm supposed to turn in a finished short story for my creative writing class this wednesday or next wednesday. My professor and most of the class already knows that I'm writing a novel and that whatever I present probably wont leave them with much. It's supposed to be 20-25 pages, I'm turning in a rough section from the first chapter next week to my professor so that she can grade it as my final, this however, is another shorter section which I'll present to the class tomorrow...
Imagine if astronomers discovered a planet way beyond the borders of our solar system, a planet that was far bigger than our own and perfect for sustaining human life beyond any means earth ever could for us. Pretend these astronomers were brilliant enough to invent a machine capable of transporting everyone on earth across the universe there. But between figuring out how to build this machine and how to get us there, they realized the only resource we needed to fuel it ran out six years ago. How would they break the news? Would they even tell us? Would all 6.7 billion of us even know?
Now lets say they did. And you and your neighbor had to see each other every morning before driving to work, before going to the store, before continuing living with the knowledge that both of you had blown it. That between the two of you and the rest of the twenty first century, you had the means to live the rest of your lives in harmony and beget children who would beget thousands of other generations of children who would also live in harmony, but you lost your chance before you even knew it was there. Would you still be able to face them? Or would your resentment towards them overpower your own guilt?
Sometimes I think thats the only way I'll ever be able to describe having to see your mother every week. The weekly visits, the apprehended knock on the door, the feigned pleasantries while you stuff your Carebears backpack with coloring books and things to hold you over for the next three hours.
The sun is dangling over the hills of Simi Valley and you're tugging on my leg and asking me to pick you up. A Frisbee floats by and flops across the grass closer to us than the little boy across the field, intending to receive it. I forget what I'm saying for a moment and remember that you're too young to understand these things and that telling you isn't healthy. When I pick you up, you tell me that you can see the moon and that it doesn't make sense because the sun is still out. And in a way that only a five-year-old is capable of, you surprise me by reaching your hands out towards the sky in an attempt to grab it. You tell me that it's still too far but you think you can reach it if I lift you up a little higher. And instead of explaining why the moon is visible during the daytime or how far away it really is, I lift you up above my head, your My Little Pony sneakers dangling by the side of my face while you stretch your fingers towards the moon.
And even if it's instilled with us from the moment we're born to the moment we die, the desire to reach far away places, places suitable for living and ones that satiate our desire for exploring the profound, I don't think we ever make enough of an effort to learn what it takes to reach them. Your mother and I, we learned the hard way, and hypothetically, so did we all when we learned about the perfect planet we would never get to visit. But you, I'm holding you as high as I can for as long as I can, letting you reach to your heart's content-until you realize what it takes to get there. And I'm doing this all as soon as I can before it's too late. Before you realize that you've spent your life wishing to live in faraway places without ever planning out how to get there.
***
I've had a hard time deciding whether or not I want to incorporate drawings into my story, simply because I know the voice and theme I'm writing it with is so similar to Life After God. But I've come to understand that my novel is written like Life After God, I appreciated the fluidity and vagueness to it's characters and think it's the best way to portray my own. Whether or not thats a bad thing is beyond my concern, I'm just interested in telling my story the most effective way I deem fit.
