It’d be easy to kill him. You just wipe him away, and there he goes. Erase him, and call him something else. Give him a new voice.
I’ve thought about doing that. Who am I, anyway? Writing, writing, writing, as though I’m good at it. Like I have a place in the world. I’ll tell you, the easiest thing to do would be to give up me and turn into the expected, the familiar, the warm and the welcoming, putting together words that are pretty reliable into formulations that are eminently predictable.
It’s kind of hard to do that, though. I can do it for a few days at a time, but then I regress into who I am. A committed writer, unknown and faraway from dreams, writing into a void that never fills up. I used to post stories on here, but won’t any longer, because the instant feedback of this place is an addiction that I have to break. Surely, I can be more patient. Work the words more, until they say what I really want them to say, no matter how weird or out there.
Trent Lewin is six foot two, darker skin, muscular, clean-shaven, black hair, a birthmark on his inner thigh. He’s from a different continent, and likes science. Not an easy guy to kill.
The other guy looks about the same, but is a hair shorter. You wouldn’t recognize him. In the coldness of the corporate world, he’s done pretty well for himself, but it’s never enough.
To kill one or the other… that’s the question. Which one do you go with? Who am I? And who are you, anyway?
Or, more easily, you just push to fill that void. Push in a way that you haven’t before, because you’ve been afraid. Or because you don’t believe that you’re an artist, or even a writer. You thought yourself a hobbyist, and hated the taste of that word, but adopted it. But you can push harder. You can etch around the frame of this person you are, and try harder. Kill your darlings, the sweetest sentences you’ve ever made: discard them so that you can reveal the actual story. Kill the man and become someone else, if you want. It’s up to you.