After enjoying Whiskey Day's 100 Word Story for the Christmas topic I challenged her to swap styles for the following week:
The problem was that the we-that-is-me known as Botgirl Questi doesn't have a social life outside of social networks. I haven't routinely hung out with friends in Second Life for a couple of years. I no longer have the kind of serendipitous encounters Whiskey writes about. I was stuck.
After a few days of fruitless grinding I decided to try writing from the perspective of my human identity. Bam! I quickly wrote one. And then another. The contrast between writing from those two perspectives was eye opening. It made me appreciate how the seemingly insignificant threads of day-to-day interaction weave together the story of our lives. For that purpose, social networking is a pale substitute for being there.
So I finally decided to take a fictional approach and wrote about an imagined conversation with my old friend Night:
"It's so strange to be back again, Night said."
"How long has it been?" I asked.
"Jesus," she sighed. It must be two years."
"Two years?" I mused. "Wow! You never snuck in that whole time?"
"Nope," she shrugged. "Night's been dead to me."
"That's funny," I said, talking to myself as much as to her.
"Funny?" she asked. "What funny about being dead to myself?"
"Funny you were very alive to me that whole time," I replied.
"Alive in your imagination," she said.
"Where else do we live?" I asked.
We sat for a while, contemplating the virtual sunset.
I had no clue how hard writing a true to life story was going to be. I can't remember the last time I struggled so much with a creative project. I spent hour after hour staring at a blank screen with dozens of false starts going nowhere.
The problem was that the we-that-is-me known as Botgirl Questi doesn't have a social life outside of social networks. I haven't routinely hung out with friends in Second Life for a couple of years. I no longer have the kind of serendipitous encounters Whiskey writes about. I was stuck.
After a few days of fruitless grinding I decided to try writing from the perspective of my human identity. Bam! I quickly wrote one. And then another. The contrast between writing from those two perspectives was eye opening. It made me appreciate how the seemingly insignificant threads of day-to-day interaction weave together the story of our lives. For that purpose, social networking is a pale substitute for being there.
So I finally decided to take a fictional approach and wrote about an imagined conversation with my old friend Night:
"It's so strange to be back again, Night said."
"How long has it been?" I asked.
"Jesus," she sighed. It must be two years."
"Two years?" I mused. "Wow! You never snuck in that whole time?"
"Nope," she shrugged. "Night's been dead to me."
"That's funny," I said, talking to myself as much as to her.
"Funny?" she asked. "What funny about being dead to myself?"
"Funny you were very alive to me that whole time," I replied.
"Alive in your imagination," she said.
"Where else do we live?" I asked.
We sat for a while, contemplating the virtual sunset.
1 comment:
What an awesome blog! Following you!
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