i started a novel!

Hello friends! Even if you don’t think yourself creative, it doesn’t matter. Get off your ass! Do something—anything—creative! Stop giving your money AND, especially, your power to think, to the TV networks. They don’t care about you! They don’t even care if you’re entertained! They just want to SELL YOU STUFF. Stuff you don’t need, which you probably really can’t afford, to impress folks you probably don’t like in most cases.

Pursuant to my post last week about not having enough time to follow through on creative projects, I have decided to finally make this public:  

I STARTED A NOVEL! Mind you, this was about 5 years ago. But, this is an illustration of what creative people do with their free time – what little of it there is to be found. (Might I have finished this novel if I had a patron or benefactor, who supported the TONS of creative projects I have started but never been able to fully bring to fruition because I’m too busy working a fulltime job -- or else too exhausted at the end of the day from said work??)

Now, I’m not saying that this (beginning of a) novel is good; but I personally happen to think it’s not all that bad. And, really, it’s so short that it’s only a concept right now. But I’m just wondering: what business do I have writing a novel? I’ve got enough irons in enough fires right now!

It’s time to share this with the universe, though. PLEASE feel free to pass it on to any literary critics, editors, or agents you know or whatever. Maybe somebody will buy the rights to finish the story, cause I sure doubt I ever will!

Anyway, here you go:

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“an incident on the farm”

a novel by david bryan

proglogue

what is life? who can make sense of it? as we grow old—if we are so lucky—we witness or hear about one death after another... family, friends, friends of friends, public figures, people with whom we haven’t even made any acquaintance. some of whom we weep for still.

a single violent political act, such as drones dropping bombs. an act of terror. an earthquake at sea, followed by an unforgiving—unknowingly innocent, even—tsunami. an apartment building engulfed in flames just before dawn, while all slumber peacefully and unaware. or, on the more micro level, a simple heart attack or stroke. a teen hit by a car going dangerously past the speed limit. wrong place at the wrong time. a stabbing during a hold-up in a dark alley. a bacterial infection lays claim to another 2-year old.

part of some cosmic scheme? the grand plan all along? or simple scientific fact? inevitable destiny? it doesn’t really matter. everything must come to an end. so must we. to dust we shall return.

chapter 1

a slight tear in his eye, perhaps one of regret, jack waved farewell one last time. a trio of tumbleweeds sauntered past in the interminable push of the prairie wind. but at least it was warm. jack had picked a good day to die.

jack shifted his final gaze from the gathered entourage toward the sky, and gave thanks for all he had accomplished and experienced over the course of his life. he lay back in the oblong pine box he had constructed for himself, and breathed his last.

chapter 2

beulah stood at a distance, with the rest of his small family and close-knit friends. most had observed the event with a sense of prayerful peace. some, only after much spiritual advisement, had gained a sense of acceptance, and had wished jack luck in the next realm. still, some wept, thinking it was too soon—that his time had not yet come. but it was simply his time to go—a fact that no one else could dispute, as the decision lay solely with the individual.

chapter 3

remy didn’t believe any of this hocus pocus. and he was mad as hell at Jack for what he perceived to be a too-early exodus from this earth, and therefore refused to attend the funeral—which was perhaps the impetus behind the tear that jack had shed as he assumed his final resting place.

before his final expiration, jack reflected on his friendship of many years, and then on the conspicuous absence of his childhood companion: remy, I hold in my heart this—that you will accept it one day. because everyone has. it’s not a question of you simply going with the flow; it’s a question of you waking up and greeting the same start-of-day scenario which everyone else has. why should you be so different? different from everyone that has ever been? you were brought into the world the same way, and your exit will also be a part of that shared experience.

Etc., etc.

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Re-reading this now, I wish I could have pursued it to the fullest possible extent.

Any potential benefactors/patrons reading this? Have you seen the IMMENSE oeuvre of my musical and written works out there in the public sphere?

CAN SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME BEFORE I, TOO, EXPIRE – SUCCUMBING TO THE DOLDROMS OF ONLY BEING A COG IN A MACHINE, UNABLE TO CHANNEL MY CREATIVE ENERGIES?

What a waste for this world if all of my untapped ideas and inspirations go to the grave.

Sorry, need to post this real quick and get back to my fulltime job.