See Troise Write

Yesterday, I completed my sentence-a-day project. I spent 365 consecutive days drafting 365 sentences, one sentence every day. You followed me throughout the process, and I must thank you. Many of you are rather new, but some of you have followed me from the beginning, and you’ve seen the metamorphosis of this writing project. 

Over the course of this year, my perception of the project has also changed. At first, it seemed simple enough: an exercise to get me in the habit of writing every day. Sometimes when life got busy, demanding, distracting it seemed like a chore. Other days, I felt completely uninspired, but I had to create something nonetheless. Rarely, I felt inspired, prolific, and wrote a few sentences to space out over the course of a few days. Sometimes I felt like I was cheating, by writing a sentence that was too easy, or forced—or something I didn’t (want to) give much thought.  But such is life. This was my learning process.

Now, reflecting on the course of this adventure, I realize that these sentences are all perfect drafts, simply because they are written, permanent, and I will be able to draw on them when I am feeling the fetters of writer’s block. I don’t know how or if I will use these sentences in the future, but I spent the year playing with form and language in the space of a sentence—in the many forms it can take—and that is enough of a lesson, I think.

Thanks for keeping pace with my adventures.

Cheers,

CT

Chris perceived a dark spot beneath the sheet of looseleaf, and despite his guessing that it might be a poppyseed or misplaced paperclip, when he lifted the paper he started in his seat to see that the spot had been a brown spider, and before he could react any further it leaped from the table into what must have been an oblivion for the creature, which Chris knew as the kitchen floor, (though he knew not where the spider would end up, if he would see it again when he was brushing his teeth, or if he would never know if it crawled or danced on him as he slept); he thought a lot of things must be like that.

—

So ends my sentence-a-day project started on August 14th, 2009.

When it was over, he wanted to sit down with his children and tell them a story—his story—as honestly as possible, but he knew it couldn’t be easily done (some parts were forgotten, other parts were tempered by the events that followed them, still others he would suppress in the retelling when he saw the looks on their faces), and yet he would succeed in teaching them something in the end, when he began, “This is my story and you will hear about my many, but not complete, failures.”

Every child knows when to console, it is an instinctual response to grief; every adult knows how to play, remembers how to throw a pillow, enjoys the sound it makes.

It was a feeling deeply rooted, deeply held—and so caused his quivering stomach—that no one would ever sit down on the park bench beside him to ask how he liked what he was reading; a sunken thought, deeply ruined his concentration, walked back to the apartment and shut off all the lights.