The Tao of Odds and Ends

Excerpt.

© Barry Kavanagh 2002

Excerpt.


In my real life I am not a writer.

You're reading this. You assume I'm writing this. Am I? Not in real life. No, in my real life I'm not writing this at all.

A writer is writing this. So, what is his posture, how is he sitting, what are his hands doing? What is he thinking, how would he phrase this? He would not be like I am, where I am, doing what I'm doing, at this moment. No, he would be himself, at his desk, scribbling - or typing - this.

Is he writing, or just trying to write?

A majestic smilodon, what they call a "sabre tooth tiger," is waiting in the shadowy undergrowth, next to a large pool of limpid, primeval water. A mastodon plods innocently into the scene, with simple, elephantine grace. It stoops down to drink from the pure, rejuvenating water. The smilodon emerges stealthily from her hiding place, approaching hungrily. She springs up from the ground, piercing the mastodon's belly with seven inches of serrated dirk teeth. There is a squeal like hard book covers being twisted and torn. Blood gushes from the hairy hide like incendiary pages blowing out the window of a library on fire after a melting bookcase has toppled over, smashing through the glass. Whack! The mastodon hits the ground. By inflicting this mortal wound, the short-legged smilodon can keep her prey without having to give chase. She must eat to live. Her ferocious teeth are lovely, in their way: but can a writer have skills as sharp as these tiger teeth? Can he try to?

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In next month's update, we will include the rest of this chapter.