How to Write a Day in the Life Story

As one writes a day in the life story

It doesn't start on the day he was born. In Marilyn you will find some advice on how to write better characters by putting yourself in their shoes. I'll take a look at it, but don't let me get wrapped up, because I have a lot to write. He hears the daily sounds of normal clattering outside. It stares at the ceiling fan and follows the blades.

Writing the history of his life

I' m watching and listening, but mostly folks in 2-D are feeling like the stuffing in my fighting author's dramatic novel life - a, uh, life - a, uh, life - a, filled with unfulfilled loves, unreachable hopes, and occasional instants of inspirational. However, sometimes you see them looking directly from a TV show or a film, and that breaks my meticulously designed illusions.

At those times I see myself as an extraterrestrial in someone else's life, and I realise that my own story is in the end insignificant. The stand next to me in the restaurant is often full of the company that is in a film about growing up, and I always wonder which of them will sadly be dying so that the others can really and at last become adults.

I' ve thought about it because not so long ago I saw a young woman get into a cab that seemed direct from every good film that hadn't been made. Tae, my friend at the moment, seemed like she could be on TV, but in a small part, like the celebrity leaving a hairdresser's and the maid at the bar telling him to have a good day.

She was Tae. That'?s why I dumped Tae for reiki. When we both got off at the fake railway terminal on our way to a Tokyo Big Sight deal. And, as a novelist, I will always prefer destiny to chance when I decide who to take to the ball.

After work we began to meet for supper and spend a few evenings sipping, then I took her home and didn't make it. This was an act that gave me the feeling that our affection came from a clean place. Difficulties began in the fall when the realities began to interrupt our lives, like the boyfriend who ruined your favourite film by telling you that the celebrity is actually an abusive drunk and the film' s producer is a sex offender.

When Reika and I met, her personality started to slide. She was a funny, sometimes erotic, sometimes even bananas, sometimes normal, daily woman, the strata of tragedy and real charity that I had drawn began to fade. Sometimes I wondered why she didn't look up at the same moment melancholy to the lunar, or why she didn't ask me what I was doing when I was staring over a viaduct at some lone bird in the faraway.

So I began to hope that a crises would disrupt our relationships, like an incurable disease or catastrophe, or the comeback of a former enthusiast who was also an architect. But instead I got a nice and pleasurable suppleness of being; I remained with Reika on Mondays, she remained with me on Wednesday, we had a drink on Fridays, and we began to raise a straying kitty.

I was abandoned by Reika for another man who was not an Architect, but just a kind fellow I had previously known, who reminds me of the rug in my parents' home; always there and somehow consoling about it. Most of what I could really sense back then was the easing of how seamlessly the relation fitted as a chapters in my fighting writer's eponymous novel.

The last time I saw Reika, it was at the same café we were on our first date. Afterwards, I recall that I sat there, alone with her empty glass of tea, and somehow thought the time to be just right, like a passion that had all the power of the earth, but had nothing but memorial.

I wondered if the compromise was profitable; where Reika was a whole section in my story, I had the odd impression that I was little more than a note in her one. Anyway, I was back where I began; I watched, listened and walked through a universe of 2-D folk who were now filled for the perhaps not so dramatic novel of my fighting 2-D authoring life.

Over the years I have found that I can see my relation to Reika in bits and pieces of good and evil, like the kind of assembly that takes place when I gaze across a little bird tower at a few lonesome people. A assembly that is broken by the possible loving of my life and asks me what I think.

I like to think that I'll be shaking my mind melancholy when that happens and tell the little gal that it's nothing and just create the memory that will heat up a similar instant with another gal in the near term; a sequence in a film with a similar screenplay, and just as horrible cash figures.

This is life, I suppose.

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