Title: Words in the Wilderness
Author: MC
Back to DirectoryStory
Instructions
S had always wanted to be a writer, ever since he was a child. He loved the way words could "take on a life of their own." Yet even in his wildest imagination, he never expected to become a copywriter. All those years of study and awe had come to this: writing algorithmically optimized captions for a multinational corporation. Words are powerful, his teachers had always told him, and now his words had the power to sell digital ads to unsuspecting scrollers. Sitting at his drab desk in Midtown East, S would spend hours lost in thought, contemplating the complexities of human emotion and the beauty of the natural world. His imagination was a rich and fertile ground, teeming with possibility. But even with all this inspiration, S found it difficult to put words to paper.
In fact S had a serious problem – unless it was corporate-mandated copy, he couldn't seem to get any writing done at all. Something about his life in the city made him feel trapped. The endless crowds and constant noise made him feel claustrophobic. It took so much energy just to get from one place to another, just to find a reservation or buy toilet paper, that there was no creativity left when he came home to M's well-appointed loft. It was a pretty picture: M with her hair up tossing a salad, gleaming white countertops, the fresh smell of mass-produced citrus. Why did S find it so depressing? When had his life become so familiar, so unlike the adventure stories he read as a child? He stood on the fire escape late at night smelling the rotting trash below and longed for open grasses and high ceilings. If only his surroundings were more inspiring, S was sure that Great American Novel would spill out of him like wine from a wide-mouthed carafe.
Instead, he spent all his time working or procrastinating, attending social functions with people he didn't know or didn't like, and doing all those chores and tasks that pass for a life. He'd yearned to get away for so long, all he needed was a little push. It came in an unexpected form: one day after work M announced that her sister had invited her to the South of France for the summer.
S felt a pang of jealousy when she didn't even mention inviting him along. But in truth this was the opportunity he needed. As they talked he had to pretend to be disappointed, but he was already making plans to find a cabin somewhere and give his dream a chance. "That sounds amazing," he said, forcing a smile. "You should definitely go. It'll be good for you to get away for a while." M's face fell at S's response. She had expected him to be excited for her and didn't understand why he seemed so distant. She tried to broach the subject again, "I thought maybe you could come visit me for a week or two?" But S could already feel his defenses rising. "What's the point of visiting if I'm not invited in the first place?" he said. So classic, he thought, fighting over a good break for both of them. M started packing that night, and S turned in all the vacation days he'd built up over years of work, booking his stay at a little wooden house on a pond with outdoor plumbing.
S spent the first week watching every single one of the old DVDs on the shelf above the cabin's tiny box television. He filled his days with nonsense. He cooked three elaborate meals a day, and obsessively cleaned the cabin's nooks and crannies until they shone like little jewels in the sunlight. S had come to this remote cabin in the woods in search of solitude and inspiration. He had hoped that the quiet of the forest would help him focus on his writing, but instead he found himself once again distracted by the mundane tasks of life. He could get lost for hours in the intricacies of a recipe, or spend an entire afternoon rearranging the books on the shelf. He thought often of M while staring at the blank page. He wondered what it all was for, anyway.
As the weeks went on, S began to lose touch with reality. He started to imagine that his life was intertwined with the novel he had been trying to write. He began to see himself as the protagonist, a solitary writer in the wilderness, struggling to find his voice and make sense of the world around him. It was a cliche, of course, but cliches made popular stories. He would write about heartbreak and loneliness, boredom and dreams, great American subjects. In his mind, S was a hero, fighting against the forces of distraction and procrastination that threatened to keep him from his true purpose. He saw himself as a visionary, a master of his craft, whose words would change the world.
But the truth was far less romantic. S was a man who had abandoned his girlfriend to escape the obligations of daily life, to pursue his own selfish ambitions without regard for anyone else. And every morning still he set up with his coffee and could not bring himself to write. He was too lost in his own fantasies, too caught up in the idea of himself as a great writer to actually put pen to paper.
As the weeks turned into months, S grew increasingly disconnected from the world around him. He stopped checking his phone, stopped returning emails, stopped caring about anything beyond the four walls of his cabin. He savored the flavors and textures of his nightly concoctions like a connoisseur, but barely registered the passing of time. He played solitare against himself, mowed the small, patchy yard, scrubbed the floorboads until his hands were covered in splinters.
In his own mind, S had become a legend, a myth, a hero beyond reproach. But in reality, he was just a man who had lost his way, trapped in his own fantasies and incapable of seeing the world for what it truly was. In the end, S packed up his belongings and returned to the city, determined to reconnect with the world and with M. He knew it wouldn't be easy – he had hurt her deeply with his callous dismissal of their life together – but he was willing to try. He was ready to take the first steps towards realizing his true potential, not as a hero or a myth or a legend, but as a human being with all the flaws and vulnerabilities that entailed.
And alone in the heat of the city, after long days of work and the frustrations of the subway commute, he began to write. For days, S wandered through the overwhelming sensory blasts of midtown, his mind alive with inspiration and possibility. Early in the morning and late at night by the dim lamp at the kitchen nook he wrote continuously, filling page after page with his thoughts, ideas and words. The beauty of the woods was ever present in his mind, somehow clearer now that he was gone, and rather than feeling trapped, the complex aura of the city began nourishing his soul and inspiring his art.
By the week of M's return, S had nearly a full draft. He knew that he had a long way to go, but for the first time in a long time, he felt hopeful. He would redevote himself to M, stary buying flowers, the little things. He would quit his job and find one with an ounce of meaning. He was ready to face the world, to embrace it for all its discomfort and challenge and mundanity, to find his own place in the grand scheme of things. He was ready to write, not just with his words, but with his life.
S had always wanted to be a writer, ever since he was a child. He loved the way words could "take on a life of their own." Yet even in his wildest imagination, he never expected to become a copywriter. All those years of study and awe had come to this: writing algorithmically optimized captions for a multinational corporation. Words are powerful, his teachers had always told him, and now his words had the power to sell digital ads to unsuspecting scrollers. Sitting at his drab desk in Midtown East, S would spend hours lost in thought, contemplating the complexities of human emotion and the beauty of the natural world. His imagination was a rich and fertile ground, teeming with possibility. But even with all this inspiration, S found it difficult to put words to paper.
In fact S had a serious problem – unless it was corporate-mandated copy, he couldn't seem to get any writing done at all. Something about his life in the city made him feel trapped. The endless crowds and constant noise made him feel claustrophobic. It took so much energy just to get from one place to another, just to find a reservation or buy toilet paper, that there was no creativity left when he came home to M's well-appointed loft. It was a pretty picture: M with her hair up tossing a salad, gleaming white countertops, the fresh smell of mass-produced citrus. Why did S find it so depressing? When had his life become so familiar, so unlike the adventure stories he read as a child? He stood on the fire escape late at night smelling the rotting trash below and longed for open grasses and high ceilings. If only his surroundings were more inspiring, S was sure that Great American Novel would spill out of him like wine from a wide-mouthed carafe.
Instead, he spent all his time working or procrastinating, attending social functions with people he didn't know or didn't like, and doing all those chores and tasks that pass for a life. He'd yearned to get away for so long, all he needed was a little push. It came in an unexpected form: one day after work M announced that her sister had invited her to the South of France for the summer.
S felt a pang of jealousy when she didn't even mention inviting him along. But in truth this was the opportunity he needed. As they talked he had to pretend to be disappointed, but he was already making plans to find a cabin somewhere and give his dream a chance. "That sounds amazing," he said, forcing a smile. "You should definitely go. It'll be good for you to get away for a while." M's face fell at S's response. She had expected him to be excited for her and didn't understand why he seemed so distant. She tried to broach the subject again, "I thought maybe you could come visit me for a week or two?" But S could already feel his defenses rising. "What's the point of visiting if I'm not invited in the first place?" he said. So classic, he thought, fighting over a good break for both of them. M started packing that night, and S turned in all the vacation days he'd built up over years of work, booking his stay at a little wooden house on a pond with outdoor plumbing.
S spent the first week watching every single one of the old DVDs on the shelf above the cabin's tiny box television. He filled his days with nonsense. He cooked three elaborate meals a day, and obsessively cleaned the cabin's nooks and crannies until they shone like little jewels in the sunlight. S had come to this remote cabin in the woods in search of solitude and inspiration. He had hoped that the quiet of the forest would help him focus on his writing, but instead he found himself once again distracted by the mundane tasks of life. He could get lost for hours in the intricacies of a recipe, or spend an entire afternoon rearranging the books on the shelf. He thought often of M while staring at the blank page. He wondered what it all was for, anyway.
As the weeks went on, S began to lose touch with reality. He started to imagine that his life was intertwined with the novel he had been trying to write. He began to see himself as the protagonist, a solitary writer in the wilderness, struggling to find his voice and make sense of the world around him. It was a cliche, of course, but cliches made popular stories. He would write about heartbreak and loneliness, boredom and dreams, great American subjects. In his mind, S was a hero, fighting against the forces of distraction and procrastination that threatened to keep him from his true purpose. He saw himself as a visionary, a master of his craft, whose words would change the world.
But the truth was far less romantic. S was a man who had abandoned his girlfriend to escape the obligations of daily life, to pursue his own selfish ambitions without regard for anyone else. And every morning still he set up with his coffee and could not bring himself to write. He was too lost in his own fantasies, too caught up in the idea of himself as a great writer to actually put pen to paper.
As the weeks turned into months, S grew increasingly disconnected from the world around him. He stopped checking his phone, stopped returning emails, stopped caring about anything beyond the four walls of his cabin. He savored the flavors and textures of his nightly concoctions like a connoisseur, but barely registered the passing of time. He played solitare against himself, mowed the small, patchy yard, scrubbed the floorboads until his hands were covered in splinters.
In his own mind, S had become a legend, a myth, a hero beyond reproach. But in reality, he was just a man who had lost his way, trapped in his own fantasies and incapable of seeing the world for what it truly was. In the end, S packed up his belongings and returned to the city, determined to reconnect with the world and with M. He knew it wouldn't be easy – he had hurt her deeply with his callous dismissal of their life together – but he was willing to try. He was ready to take the first steps towards realizing his true potential, not as a hero or a myth or a legend, but as a human being with all the flaws and vulnerabilities that entailed.
And alone in the heat of the city, after long days of work and the frustrations of the subway commute, he began to write. For days, S wandered through the overwhelming sensory blasts of midtown, his mind alive with inspiration and possibility. Early in the morning and late at night by the dim lamp at the kitchen nook he wrote continuously, filling page after page with his thoughts, ideas and words. The beauty of the woods was ever present in his mind, somehow clearer now that he was gone, and rather than feeling trapped, the complex aura of the city began nourishing his soul and inspiring his art.
By the week of M's return, S had nearly a full draft. He knew that he had a long way to go, but for the first time in a long time, he felt hopeful. He would redevote himself to M, stary buying flowers, the little things. He would quit his job and find one with an ounce of meaning. He was ready to face the world, to embrace it for all its discomfort and challenge and mundanity, to find his own place in the grand scheme of things. He was ready to write, not just with his words, but with his life.
S had always wanted to be a writer, ever since he was a child. He loved the way words could "take on a life of their own." Yet even in his wildest imagination, he never expected to become a copywriter. All those years of study and awe had come to this: writing algorithmically optimized captions for a multinational corporation. Words are powerful, his teachers had always told him, and now his words had the power to sell digital ads to unsuspecting scrollers. Sitting at his drab desk in Midtown East, S would spend hours lost in thought, contemplating the complexities of human emotion and the beauty of the natural world. His imagination was a rich and fertile ground, teeming with possibility. But even with all this inspiration, S found it difficult to put words to paper.
In fact S had a serious problem – unless it was corporate-mandated copy, he couldn't seem to get any writing done at all. Something about his life in the city made him feel trapped. The endless crowds and constant noise made him feel claustrophobic. It took so much energy just to get from one place to another, just to find a reservation or buy toilet paper, that there was no creativity left when he came home to M's well-appointed loft. It was a pretty picture: M with her hair up tossing a salad, gleaming white countertops, the fresh smell of mass-produced citrus. Why did S find it so depressing? When had his life become so familiar, so unlike the adventure stories he read as a child? He stood on the fire escape late at night smelling the rotting trash below and longed for open grasses and high ceilings. If only his surroundings were more inspiring, S was sure that Great American Novel would spill out of him like wine from a wide-mouthed carafe.
Instead, he spent all his time working or procrastinating, attending social functions with people he didn't know or didn't like, and doing all those chores and tasks that pass for a life. He'd yearned to get away for so long, all he needed was a little push. It came in an unexpected form: one day after work M announced that her sister had invited her to the South of France for the summer.
S felt a pang of jealousy when she didn't even mention inviting him along. But in truth this was the opportunity he needed. As they talked he had to pretend to be disappointed, but he was already making plans to find a cabin somewhere and give his dream a chance. "That sounds amazing," he said, forcing a smile. "You should definitely go. It'll be good for you to get away for a while." M's face fell at S's response. She had expected him to be excited for her and didn't understand why he seemed so distant. She tried to broach the subject again, "I thought maybe you could come visit me for a week or two?" But S could already feel his defenses rising. "What's the point of visiting if I'm not invited in the first place?" he said. So classic, he thought, fighting over a good break for both of them. M started packing that night, and S turned in all the vacation days he'd built up over years of work, booking his stay at a little wooden house on a pond with outdoor plumbing.
S spent the first week watching every single one of the old DVDs on the shelf above the cabin's tiny box television. He filled his days with nonsense. He cooked three elaborate meals a day, and obsessively cleaned the cabin's nooks and crannies until they shone like little jewels in the sunlight. S had come to this remote cabin in the woods in search of solitude and inspiration. He had hoped that the quiet of the forest would help him focus on his writing, but instead he found himself once again distracted by the mundane tasks of life. He could get lost for hours in the intricacies of a recipe, or spend an entire afternoon rearranging the books on the shelf. He thought often of M while staring at the blank page. He wondered what it all was for, anyway.
As the weeks went on, S began to lose touch with reality. He started to imagine that his life was intertwined with the novel he had been trying to write. He began to see himself as the protagonist, a solitary writer in the wilderness, struggling to find his voice and make sense of the world around him. It was a cliche, of course, but cliches made popular stories. He would write about heartbreak and loneliness, boredom and dreams, great American subjects. In his mind, S was a hero, fighting against the forces of distraction and procrastination that threatened to keep him from his true purpose. He saw himself as a visionary, a master of his craft, whose words would change the world.
But the truth was far less romantic. S was a man who had abandoned his girlfriend to escape the obligations of daily life, to pursue his own selfish ambitions without regard for anyone else. And every morning still he set up with his coffee and could not bring himself to write. He was too lost in his own fantasies, too caught up in the idea of himself as a great writer to actually put pen to paper.
As the weeks turned into months, S grew increasingly disconnected from the world around him. He stopped checking his phone, stopped returning emails, stopped caring about anything beyond the four walls of his cabin. He savored the flavors and textures of his nightly concoctions like a connoisseur, but barely registered the passing of time. He played solitare against himself, mowed the small, patchy yard, scrubbed the floorboads until his hands were covered in splinters.
In his own mind, S had become a legend, a myth, a hero beyond reproach. But in reality, he was just a man who had lost his way, trapped in his own fantasies and incapable of seeing the world for what it truly was. In the end, S packed up his belongings and returned to the city, determined to reconnect with the world and with M. He knew it wouldn't be easy – he had hurt her deeply with his callous dismissal of their life together – but he was willing to try. He was ready to take the first steps towards realizing his true potential, not as a hero or a myth or a legend, but as a human being with all the flaws and vulnerabilities that entailed.
And alone in the heat of the city, after long days of work and the frustrations of the subway commute, he began to write. For days, S wandered through the overwhelming sensory blasts of midtown, his mind alive with inspiration and possibility. Early in the morning and late at night by the dim lamp at the kitchen nook he wrote continuously, filling page after page with his thoughts, ideas and words. The beauty of the woods was ever present in his mind, somehow clearer now that he was gone, and rather than feeling trapped, the complex aura of the city began nourishing his soul and inspiring his art.
By the week of M's return, S had nearly a full draft. He knew that he had a long way to go, but for the first time in a long time, he felt hopeful. He would redevote himself to M, stary buying flowers, the little things. He would quit his job and find one with an ounce of meaning. He was ready to face the world, to embrace it for all its discomfort and challenge and mundanity, to find his own place in the grand scheme of things. He was ready to write, not just with his words, but with his life.
S had a vivid and expansive imagination. He would often spend hours lost in thought, conjuring up elaborate worlds and fantastical scenarios that existed only in his mind. His creativity was boundless, and he loved to explore the possibilities of what could be.
As a child, S spent hours reading books and escaping into their pages. He would often imagine himself as the hero of these stories, embarking on perilous adventures and saving the day. These stories fueled his imagination and set him on a path towards becoming a writer.
As he grew older, S's love for writing only grew stronger. He would spend hours scribbling down ideas and sketching out characters, each one more complex and captivating than the last. He had endless notebooks filled with his ideas, but he struggled to turn them into something tangible.
Despite his writer's block, S never lost his passion for creating. He would spend hours lost in thought, contemplating the complexities of human emotion and the beauty of the natural world. His imagination was a rich and fertile ground, teeming with possibility.
But even with all this inspiration, S found it difficult to put words to paper. He was often too distracted by his own thoughts and daydreams to focus on actually writing. Instead, he would get lost in the world of his mind, savoring the sensations and experiences that he conjured up.
It was this love of daydreaming that led S to seek out solitude in the remote cabin in the woods. He hoped that by removing himself from the distractions of everyday life, he would be able to focus on his writing and finally bring his ideas to life. However, even in this secluded environment, S struggled to concentrate and found himself losing touch with reality.
S had always felt a sense of restlessness in the city. The endless crowds and constant noise made him feel claustrophobic, like he was suffocating in the urban landscape. Even though he had a well-paying job as a copywriter for a large corporation, he felt like something was missing.
As he looked around him in Midtown East, S couldn't help but feel like he was just a small cog in a massive machine. The buildings loomed over him, their towering heights making him feel insignificant. He longed for something more, something that would allow him to break free from the dull routine of city life.
It wasn't just the physical confines of the city that made him feel trapped, however. S was also frustrated by the monotony of his job as a copywriter. He felt like every day was the same, writing algorithmically optimized slogans for products he didn't care about - just so they could be sold to unsuspecting consumers.
At first, S had been excited by the prospect of working for a large corporation. The salary was good, and he was able to afford a comfortable lifestyle. But he soon realized that money couldn't buy him happiness, and the more he worked at his job, the more disillusioned he became.
In his downtime, S would often escape to the nearest park, where he would sit on a bench and watch the world go by. He would take deep breaths of fresh air and let the greenery soothe his soul. For a moment, he would feel free from the constraints of the city and his job. But all too soon, the peaceful moments would end, and he would have to return to his mundane routine.
It was this feeling of entrapment that led S to seek out solitude in the remote cabin in the woods. He hoped that by removing himself from the confines of the city, he would be able to break free from the shackles of his unsatisfying job and find inspiration for his writing.
S was caught off guard by M's announcement. He had always known that she had a close relationship with her sister, but he never expected her to leave him behind for an entire summer. He felt a pang of jealousy and hurt that she hadn't even thought to invite him along.
He tried to hide his disappointment and be happy for M. "That sounds amazing," he said, forcing a smile. "You should definitely go. It'll be good for you to get away for a while."
M's face fell at S's response. She had expected him to be excited for her and didn't understand why he seemed so distant. She tried to broach the subject again, "I thought maybe you could come visit me for a week or two?"
But S could already feel his defences rising. "What's the point of visiting if I'm not invited in the first place?" he thought with resentment. Instead, he shrugged nonchalantly and said, "I don't know. That's a long way to travel for just a week or two."
M looked hurt and frustrated, but S just couldn't bring himself to be honest with her. He knew that their relationship was already strained, and he didn't want to make it worse. So, he let her believe that he was okay with the arrangement.
As M started to make arrangements to leave for the summer, S felt a sense of unease settle over him. He was alone once again, trapped in the city, and unable to write. It was then that he realized that his life had become empty and hollow, devoid of meaning and purpose.
S spent the next few weeks after M's departure alone in the city. He tried to focus on his job as a copywriter, but he found himself going through the motions without any real passion or creativity. The words he wrote were empty and soulless, devoid of any real meaning or purpose.
One day, S decided that he couldn't go on like this any longer. He had to break free from the monotony of his life and find his true purpose. He packed a bag, left the city, and headed out into the wilderness once again, determined to face his fears and discover the true writer within him.
For days, S wandered through the forests and meadows, his mind alive with inspiration and possibility. He wrote continuously, filling page after page with his thoughts, ideas and words. The beauty of nature surrounded him, nourishing his soul and inspiring his art. In this solitude, he began to understand his place in the world and the role he was meant to play.
As S emerged from his self-imposed exile, he was a changed man. He had found his voice, and with it, a newfound sense of confidence and purpose. He knew that his journey was far from over, but he was ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, armed with nothing but his words and his heart.