Automatic Writing, Stream of Consciousness, and 500 Words

I've been reading about Ernest Hemingway's early years in Paris before he became a big-shot. Gertrude Stein was a big influence. She encouraged him to try "automatic writing", the writer lets the words flow from the brain like drops of water onto the paper without regard to meaning or sense. Just let the words that enter your head land on the page.

I was reminded of Jack Kerouac. Kerouac had this way of letting a "stream of consciousness" take over and guide his writing. He would write a paragraph that might go on for pages, hundreds of words flowing out of his mind, often making no sense.

I have also played with this idea. It can be a lot of fun. So today, I'm going to write 500 words "automatically" and see if I can tap into a stream of consciousness. The setting for this exercise is a local coffee shop. I have head phones playing instrumental music, mostly from movie soundtracks via Pandora.

Here goes.
______________________________

Music in my head. My fingers typing, making mistakes, using the Delete. Why the hell can’t I type? People reading, drinking coffee, looking bored. A lady with a blue scarf, no, actually they have turned and it’s a kid, huddled together with another kid. Smart phone. Giggling. School is out. The shade just hit me in the shoulder. Warm. Buzzing noise. Breaks letting their air out. Trucks nearby. A Pepsi truck at the red light, turning, followed by a van with some kind of landscape materials. It’s cooler today. Not so hot. Shifting. Eyes. Shadows. Turning pages. The smell of muffins and burnt coffee. Someone needs deodorant. I hope it’s not me I smell. Music coming and going, beats. Movie soundtrack. I think I’m getting tired. Really? More words. Get the damn words down. Itching. My eyes watering. What the hell? Hard to think. Mom. Where is she? Hemingway said to believe in yourself. Yea. No one else will. Hard to think he was once a twenty year old who had doubts but could at least write. He knew he had to promote himself, take care of himself, believe in himself, because no one else would. Not even Hadley. She had her own issues. She looked after Hem, but still no one can care for you better than you. What was it like living in Paris. I want to go. When can I go? Is it safe? Why not? Find the right time of year so the weather doesn't kill you. Maybe stay there a year. Hem stayed there, but traveled too much. He was barely in Paris the first two years. Just traveling. He and I have some things in common. I was also a journalist, learned the newspaper writing craft. I also like to travel. He was also a fake, like me. At times I feel like a fake. Hem was always playing a role. Me, too. Can anyone really be themselves with another person? Not really. We are alone. No one but us. We are it. Shoes. The floor, twinkling with light and shadow from the morning sun. The feet cross over it, disturbing it. Clutter. My mind is cluttered. 500 words. Almost there but I shouldn’t care. Keep going. What is next? Silly. Goofy. Are people looking at me? I hope not. Leave me alone. All I want is to be left alone. Let me work. Don't mess with me. God people are messy. That lady is eating and chomping her food like a horse. Calm down. Coffee smells pink. Red. Yellow. Horns in my ears. Smiling. Laughing. Coughing. Gagging. The smell of toast or maybe eggs. What to do. Lots to do. Fingers. Lady looking for papers. Dressed in green pants, sweats. It’s too hot for sweats. Keep going. What is my brain telling me? Greys. Black. Artwork. I need to draw something, paint. Studio. Need to work. Money. Earn some money. Who needs money? I like money. Who doesn’t. We must have it to live. Done

(502 words)