Sketch: noun a rough or unfinished drawing or painting, often made to assist in making a more finished picture.
Or my prefered definition of the comedic variety of a sketch (skip to the 4:51 mark if it doesn’t do it for you automatically).
Although these are both excellent definitions of the respective variations of a sketch, I’d like to create one of my own.
I haven’t come up with a catchy title, but I’m envisioning a written version to add to the above two types.
I don’t write fiction often, but when I do I get a clear single image or images in my head and write in great detail about that scene. I have no idea where this image comes from or where this ‘written sketch’ is going. I make no plans, no outlines, just feverishly describe with great detail what I see. I get the feeling that in the unlikely event I should ever finish a short story, the reader would drown in Chekhov's guns. I sort of delite in the idea, not in drowning readers but in breaking rules and restraints on how and what I should write.
In order to rebel fully though, you must actually finish something. Yet this is not the case. I invariably walk away from the keyboard with the full intent to continue on whatever sketch I just created later, but I almost never do. What is left is a written version of a few buildings, a lake or peninsula with mountains in the background and so forth.
The sketch gets filed away in its own folder and forgotten about. I daydream about continuing this sketch or that sketch but nothing ever comes of these thoughts.
So I’ve amassed a written sketchbook over the years. I can only think of one short story I’ve finished. The rest are just “rough” and “unfinished” chunks of texts taking up space on the google cloud. Some are only a few words long hinting at bizarre dreams from the night prior.
This used to bother me. It used to even make me angry or depressed. To the point where I would start thinking of these sketches, or have a flash and WANT to write out what I see but can’t at the moment. Instead I write a prompt and file it away. These thoughts angered me because I thought “what is the point?” I might sketch them, I might not. Even if I do it won’t amount to a completed work so stop thinking about it.
I usually can’t though, adding to the frustration.
I’m not sure when it happened or why, but I just came to accept them for what they are, vague, rough images used to quell whatever need to write I felt at the time. Yes, I suck at finishing things, especially written, fictional things, but at least some internal purpose was served and in the unlikely event I feel the need to revisit that scene, I know just where my sketchbook is.
In the spirit of sketches I thought I’d share one that is particularly fitting. I didn’t realize how fitting until I reread for the first time in a very long time. The very first line was the flash that got me going. Everything else was leading up to that line and made on the spot (during the feverish stage I mentioned above). In the story the main character laments the lack of desire to write even though he spends most of his workday wanting to. So I figured, right on topic for this particular blog.
“Maybe part of the motivation is that you’re NOT supposed to be doing it.” She questioned taking another long drag from her cigarette, staring off into the distance deep in thought.
I had never really considered myself the rebellious type but that could indeed be part of my problem. Still, it didn’t quite fit. I wanted it to fit, needed it to fit, but yet somehow, like the missing ingredient in the family recipe, something was just not quite right during the taste test.
“Nah” I said, “I don’t think that’s it.”
“Or maybe you’re just fucking lazy.” She scratched her head with her right hand and her left held her cigarette at length while individual strands of blond hairs danced about her face in the early fall breeze. They seemed to have minds of their own, tiny tentacles reaching into the air for microbes to feast on.
I followed the tentacles back to their source, her dark brown roots had covered a lot of area on either side of her part. I’d never seen so much root on anyone else. Was that the ‘in’ thing now? Nah, she wouldn’t be bothered with that crap. Everything about her was so beautifully unplanned and out of control. If it was ‘in’ it would just be an annoying coincidence to her.
Unfortunately that lack of caring seemed to extend to me as well.
Suddenly she snapped back to reality. “Hey! Did you hear me?” she said before adding “I just called you fucking lazy.” Her head tilted to the side as she immediately started lightly laughing while flicking her cigarette.
‘She did didn’t she?’ I thought. And she didn’t care one bit about how I would take it. With her head turned and mouth open in a light laugh I admired her teeth. I couldn’t really describe them to you but they were special, special in a way that growing up with a parent who couldn’t afford to get you braces made teeth special.
I suddenly really hated my teeth. Then I suddenly realized I hadn’t said anything in a really long time.
Quick, say something, my brain urged! But be cool,......pretend you haven’t been Facebook stalking her since 8th grade.
“I….” was all I got out and probably for the better. I don’t know what was to follow but it couldn’t have been great. In fact, it would probably have been an immensely embarrassing bramble of words that would go in my hall of fame of awkward utterances to attractive females.
“Later” she had interrupted unknowingly, while ashing her cigarette right there on the handicap ramp in the back of the building. She didn’t know she interrupted me, which brought me some solace, but I felt like I was in a dream where a monster was chasing me and I couldn’t make a sound.
Instead the monster was up, swirling effortlessly around. Up the ramp it went, no hair flip exposing the neck, no look back at me.
An unbuttoned black and blue plaid shirt flapped uncaring in the wind. Only parts of the plain black shirt underneath could be seen as the plaid was tossed about by the wind. Her jeans were ripped in all the right places and black Converse shoes quickly made their way up the ramp.
And just like that it was over. After a summer where I had just so happened to end up interning at the same place she worked. A crush thought lost then brought back to life with all the subtlety of high voltage resuscitation paddles.
I stood there in a mannequin-like state until the metal door slammed on its own, jolting me back to reality.
In retrospect I should have given myself more credit. I’m surprised I managed to say anything. Then I began the first replay of the events that just happened for the first of what would be many many replays to come. I had been writing at one of the outdoor break area benches.
The voice had hit me like lightning, so fast and bright its source I didn’t immediately register. She had asked in a bored tone “Whatcha’ writtin’?”. After turning though, the sound of the voice resonated in my head. As it did so, I responded on autopilot, again perhaps better that way.
While her two words tried to penetrate my thick skull, the memories of our shared youth clouded the inside of my skull’s thickness. I managed simply, “They’re supposed to look like meeting notes, but everyday day during our morning meeting I write a little bit on a story. I’m not supposed to, but I’m so bored……...I always promise myself I’ll work on it more when I’m not busy or at work but I never do, and I never know why.”
My thoughts coming full circle, I was once again aware of where I was, in a small courtyard at the bottom of our building. At some point I must have stood to face her, although I have no recollection of doing that. I must have taken the elevator back up to the office, but the butterflies in my stomach could have probably gotten me up there just fine.
