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A Week in the Life of a Modern Writer
by Trevor Davis

DAY ONE

2:34 P.M. I awake. I awake in bed. It is cold outside. I know this because a writer’s keen observational skill keeps me in tune with my surroundings.

4:45 P.M. I wake up again. Still looks cold. I light a cigarette and scoff at the warning smoking in bed can kill you.

5:00 P.M. I apply ointment to my index and middle finger. I cut a hole in the carpet where my cigarette dropped and fill it back in with hair clippings from a Barbie doll. I decide not to tell the reader why a grown man owns a collection of Barbie dolls. Somewhere in this chaos there must be a story. I sit down at the computer and check my email. No one has written me. It is because no one understands me. I’m too complex.

7:09 P.M. After two hours of masturbating to porno on the Internet, I decide a change in venue is in order to stimulate creative juices. I lie on the couch, watch television and belittle the lack of inginiouity.

9:12 P.M. I finally find the correct spelling of ingenuity. I initially decide to boycott the word for at least a month, but through further deliberation, decide to sleep on it.

11:03 P.M. I fall asleep after reading Margaret Atwood’s latest book for the fourth time this month. I hate her, she’s such a hack.

DAY TWO

11:45 A.M. A wise man once said, “Early bird gets the worm.” I put on a pot of coffee and make plans to develop the cigarette idea. I ban the word ingenuity. “Shit!” with an exclamation mark. I have no cigarettes and refuse to work without proper equipment. Atmosphere is vital to a writer. I walk to the corner store, buy a pack of cigarettes and a can of ravioli. I also purchase a copy of the Toronto Sun. Not for the articles. Their articles reek of imperialistic right-wing decadence, but rather because the Sunshine Girl reminds me of a girlfriend I once wished I had. I’m an idolater. I stage a fake wedding, mix some Margaritas and fantasize about a honeymoon in Acapulco. I vow to never tell anyone. I end up telling everyone because a writer must always be open and honest or their work will suffer. I own a collection of Barbie dolls because I pretend to live with a group of scantily clad college women.

1:35 P.M. I’m waist deep in creative muck. Cigarettes….. Cigarettes……. Cigarettes are a metaphor but a metaphor for what? A metaphor for being burned….. being burned by life. No, being burned by love. Better still, being burned by life and love. Yes, it’s coming to me. A midget lights a cigarette. A woman, a tall lanky woman with a penchant for misery and French perfume walks towards the midget across a smoky bar. No, not a smoky bar. Smoky bars have been beaten to death like a rented mule. Instead of a smoky bar she seductively saunters across a runway strip in a war torn country while a band in the distance plays a regal tune. She walks to the midget and puts out his cigarette. They say nothing. The midget hands her the pack of cigarettes. She takes one out and lights it. He tears it from her mouth throws it to the ground. They both smile at one another and turn away as they are shot by the Russian army. The theme—life is hell, love is pain.

5:56 P.M. I reinstate the use of ingenuity so I may have an appropriate word to describe my method of constructing a great story.

8:19 P.M. I cry in the corner when I realize the irony of a midget smoking.

8:41 P.M. I continue to cry in the corner when I realize my cigarette idea is the worst storyline ever thought of.


DAY THREE

9:45 A.M. I barely muster the strength needed to grab a blanket and pillow. I drag these precious belongings back into the corner with me. I pledge to never leave this corner, nor eat until I die.

9:50 A.M. I sloth back to my den, collect my finest works and return to my sarcophagus corner. I restate my pledge swearing to never move again. This is where they shall find me laying dead among my greatest thoughts proving once and for all that my work was underappreciated. I fantasize about who will be at my funeral and who will take the podium to rejoice my name. I fall to sleep comforted in the thought of having a number one best seller when I’m dead.

DAY FOUR

Is almost the same as yesterday except I’m really hungry now? I also put a question mark at the end of a sentence that isn’t a question because my computer’s spell check tells me to do so. Is a computer controlling my life. I squash the notion, my writer’s instinct is strong?


DAY FIVE

7:00 A.M. I’m too hungry to sleep and realize it’s foolish to deprive the world of my talent. I open the tin of ravioli and celebrate my existence. I have a brilliant life ahead of me. Scratch that, I’m better than brilliant. I’m flexing my writing skills and creating a new word to describe myself. I’m sparklliant. From now on I shall be a sparklliant being.

12:00 P.M. I decide to take my celebration one step further. I pick out my favourite beret, grab a notepad and head to the nearest bar. When I arrive, I notice a pseudo artist sitting in a booth trying to look complex while writing petty thoughts down. He’s probably only doing it for attention or trying to get laid. After standing on the bar reassuring everyone they’re whores to a dogmatic fascist system and lapdogs to corporations, I order a large pint.

2:14 P.M. I’m feeling fantastic. I can’t remember why on earth I let some tiny flaw in a storyline get me depressed. New rule: From now on nothing is going to get me down.

5:31 P.M. New rule number two: Remember to drink everyday because I feel sparklliant.

10:20 P.M. I wunt to maek babiez wij the watetreess.

122:63 P.M. DemHhasdga Fikk!!!


DAY SIX

4:05 P.M. I wake up with a bad taste in my mouth. I remember a dream I had last night about a manly woman offering me a lollipop. I consult my book of Freud and discover that I’m homosexual. I’m worried until I realize that I’m actually a lesbian trapped in a man’s body.

4:06 P.M. I feel shame in using such a clichéd, cheap joke. Not the lesbian joke but rather the drunken misspelling joke found in day five.

4:07 P.M. I decide to feel shame about the lesbian joke as well.

6:30 P.M. I skip ahead to day seven in fear of losing the reader’s attention and try to remember if I’ve already used this gimmick to progress a story. I take a blood oath with a Barbie to never ever use a gimmick again.

DAY SEVEN

The day is too busy to keep proper timelines. I think of a nouveau idea for a short story involving a writer’s struggle to find inspiration so he writes about trying to find something to write about. I have a feeling this one will finally put me on the map. I give a, “You’re welcome” to the reader for providing them with a panoramic view of the private world we geniuses live in. I disappear behind a puff of smoke, take my rightful place beside the greatest literary minds of our age and prepare myself to receive the accolades I deserve. Finally I crown this achievement with a –

THE END.


Trevor Davis cowers in fear from the rest of the world in a hovel near Toronto, Canada, occasionally sending messages out to the world scribbled on the backs of old cereal packets and transported via a well trained carrier chicken.

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