(Not so) Spontaneous Short Story - Part 1

I was looking through my Google Docs folders the other day, and came across the beginnings of what looked to be a story. I vaguely remember writing it, and believe it was during one of my NaNoWriMo attempts. I've decided to take it and use it as a starting point. I'll try to come up with a story on the spot and see what happens.

- - - - -

He pulled into the parking lot, eying his usual spot near the lamppost. There was a car in the space next to it, which seemed odd, as the rest of the lot was mostly empty.

After turning his car off off his car, he glanced to his right, and saw a girl sitting behind the wheel. She was looking down at something, and as he walked towards the restaurant, he could hear her stereo playing.

"Fly me to the moon..."

He opened the door to the restaurant and headed towards his usal table, all the while humming along to the tune. He ordered a coffee and a sandwich, pulled out a book from his coat pocket and began to read. He paused only enough to say thank you when his food arrived, and when he was done, he simply smiled and nodded.

After an hour or so, he looked up long enough to notice someone had sat down across from him, and had started drinking his coffee. The confusion he was feeling must have showed on his face, because she grinned and set down the cup.

"Took you long enough. I was beginning to think I'd be here all night." She reached into her bag and pulled out a small pouch. "Now, tell me that you love me."

The number and variety of thoughts that graced his head was staggering, but all he could produce was a weak, "What?"

She pursed her lips slightly, and replied, "Not exactly what I was going for."

"I'm sorry, but what exactly do you want with me?"

She leaned back in the booth, locking eyes with him. "I want you to tell me that you love me. I want to hear you say it."

He took a sip of water, and stared at the table for a moment before responding. "Well, that might be a problem. Do you want to just hear the words, or do you want me to mean it? Because if you want me to mean it, I'm afraid that won't be possible. I don't know you, so how could I be in love with you?"

"Oh, I want you to mean it. And what does knowing a person have to do with loving them? Haven't you ever heard of love at first sight? You've obviously seen me, so what's the problem?" She tore open a packet of sugar and started stirring it into the coffee. "Just admit you love me, and we'll deal with the getting to know each other part later."

He leaned forward, counting off each item on his fingers. "First of all, I don't believe in love at first sight. Second, even if I did, I think I'd know if it had happened. Third, I could never love anyone who puts sugar in their coffee. So there."

At this, she burst out laughing. "Oh, please! You think love has anything to do with the way I prepare my coffee, or your taste in music, or our favorite color?" She leaned forward, a smirk spreading across her face. "Newsflash, friend: you have as much say in who you fall in love with as you do with who your birth parents are. And as for being able to tell, I just think you don't want to admit that I'm right, not just to me, but also to yourself."

-----

This is, of course, a work in progress. I'll keep working on it regardless, but I am very interested in your thoughts so far. Be brutal! Constructive criticism is a wonderful thing. Compliments are, of course, also welcome...

(all edits made to the story itself will be made with strikethrough to show the full process)

The definition of insanity.

Look at me, I'm blogging! Yes, I've entered into that arena about which no one has ever rightfully said, "No one would want to read about that!" Sounds like the perfect place for me.

I've always wanted to be a writer. Short stories, novels, movie scripts, epic poems, they've all appealed to me on some level, but I was never able to hunker down and really go at it. I always suffered from a kind of writer's block, where I can't slow my thoughts down to pace I can type at. I've tried everything I can think of to no avail. Even alcohol doesn't slow my thoughts down, it just makes them a little blurry and hard to read.

So why am I trying again? Because I'm not very smart.

I've participated in National Novel Writing Month 6 years in a row, never getting past the second paragraph. I've taken no less than three Creative Writing classes at two different schools. I've read essays on writing from several authors, including my hero, Isaac Asimov. There's one thing that they've all said, in one form or another: to be a writer, you have to write. A lot. I'm paraphrasing, granted, but there it is.

So I'll give it another shot. Maybe this blogging thing is more my style. Maybe I'll stick with it this time. Maybe I'll even give that screenplay about birds another go around. Whatever happens, my goal is to have it be said that I tried. I am, however shooting for that succeeding thing.