Eleven Minutes to Midnight
Eleven minutes. That’s how long I have to write this, because that’s how long it’s going to take for my clothes to dry.
Nine minutes. Did time fly? I’ve always been a slow writer, although I daresay that my mind is much, much faster than my hand. Maybe I ought to develop a shorthand or just bring my nifty recorder. Although speaking into a recorder might look pretty bloody weird. Like one of those half-mad doctors on those shows, keeping their voice journals of their patients. I’m not mad, am I?
Six minutes. My handwriting’s deteriorated since May. I’ve not written much, by hand, I mean. Nobody seems to write much anymore. in this age of computers. But sometimes I get an urge to grab a quill-tipped pen, dip it in ink, and scratch away like the scribes of the olde days. Hah, I spelled old with an ‘e’. Maybe I am slightly mad, after all. Or aren’t we all?
Three minutes. I wonder how many words I’ve written so far. I’ve never gotten a high score on the SAT writing part. I blame that mostly on my writing speed.
Barely a page written, and my hand already aches. Sigh. All the exercise I get working at Becco, and my fingers still cry out in pain after merely ten minutes of mad scribbles.
One minute left. What would I do if there was only a single minute left of my life?
Everything above this paragraph was copied as it was written in my notebook at Waverly Wu, with divided paragraphs. It was pure brainstorming/speed writing (as fast as I could write, with the least number of interruptions that I could manage), so it’s both shorter and more directionless than my usual blog posts.