Before It's Voiced

Intro

gen·re

noun

a category of artistic composition, as in music or literature, characterized by similarities in form, style, or subject matter

Genre.

When Pete started writing— years ago with a dusty typewriter in his lap, the participation prize for attending his great uncle's funeral— they told him to pick a genre. Fantasy. Mystery. Horror. Dystopia. His teachers taught each one with fervor, condescending dips in their smiles before launching into "this is what you write before real literature".

Real. Literature.

An oxymoron. A joke.

When Pete started writing— days after the first red-circled F on a poem about the twisted words in his head— he threw genre out the window.

He embraced the world instead.

The world, Pete found, does not taste of "genres". It does not let you pick and choose mystery or horror. It does not come with options. You don't stay on one page. You're force-fed the entire damn library in one go.

So.

Pete wrote it all.

(And then he met him.)

(Him)

Years after his breakthrough novel— his best-selling piece about parking lots and Best Buy lights, a confession wrapped in pretty words and labeled lies— Pete took the money and checks. He moved away from the cities that clawed at his mind with theories and questions— despite his agent's groveling that he attend the movie premiere of his suicide lines. He tossed out his laptops and phones. He packed his bags with notebooks and pens, a receipt for a new typewriter in his back pocket and a promise it would arrive at his new home.

His new home, the perfect home. The perfect place for a pretentious man like him.

A home by the water. A house licked and loved by the sea.

An ocean view and a beach for his backyard.

The place where he'd meet him

~

Hey. Call me K. I'm a new writer, I guess, so feel free to hang out with me on Tumblr. A link is on my profile page. 

Hope you like it enough to stick around.