The Colonel

In the dark, unfamiliar room I sat with some trepidation at a small desk. I missed my journal. There was only a computer before me. I fingered he keyboard tentatively.
A door suddenly opened. A colonel strode in--mustached, monocled, helmeted, festooned with decorations, and bearing a short riding crop like Patton. I smiled. A condescending sneer formed with a tilt of his mustache as he sized me up.
“Well now,” he began, “you’ve decided you wish to be a writer, eh?”
“Yes, s-sir.”
“Splendid! Honest, humble—progress begins with humility. It so happens you are not alone in your desire, my good man, not alone. Legions end up here for training. Get soft in the belly they do, self-absorbed, that’s what does it—ego, like yours!” He suddenly whacked his riding whip across my desktop. It came from nowhere. I jumped.
“I’ve read your so-called journal,” he scoffed. “Rubbish! All of it!”
“Well, I--.”
“Rubbish, I say!” For an old guy he was very quick; again he whacked the desk, this time so fast it just missed my knuckles before I jerked them away.
“Hey, watch it!” I complained.
“Here’s the thing to do the proper job,” he continued, seemingly oblivious to his near-mutilation of my fingers as he strummed his mustache. He touched the computer keyboard with reverence. Then his expression darkened as he leaned his near my own, and he stared a hole through me like Blackstone. I drew back, but there was no escape.
“Now you’re going to become a writer, boy!” he sneered slowly. And you’re going to do it right now!” (Crack!) “Now type!” (Crack, Crack!))
“Uh, uh—what? What should I say--?”
“Anything, dammit! Anything at all! Now type, you rascal! You novice! You coward! You know-nothing! Type, or I’ll rap your knuckles good!” (Whack whack!) “Type! Type! Type! (Smack, crack, whack, punctuating each word with his whip.)
I reached to the keys, pulled back, reached again, trembling. My fingers fussed and fidgeted and fumbled over the circular depressions, and without realizing what I was doing, I skittered off the following:
“qikd thoiyhaf slu,.k—“
“Good, good, keep on, keep going—“ the colonel urged, warming to the clicking keys like listening to a flowing symphony. I continued rapping, clicking, trying to quiet the whip… “In the dark, unfamiliar room….”
“Ah, excellent! Most excellent!” he exalted. “Keep it going.” I realized my only protection from the crop was the ceaseless click of the keys. To stop, even for a moment, was to risk amputation. “I sat with some fear—“no, I corrected, backspacing, “trepidation—“
“No!” he roared. “Never correct in the heat of fiction, Never! Nevernevernever!” I winced but kept typing as the colonel jumped and stomped his black boots loudly as in a childish tantrum. He fumed. He ranted. He pounded his fists on the desktop in a rage of frustration. Then suddenly the colonel calmed.
“Just type, just type the words like you play a piano,” he smiled--a tolerant, fatherly, patient smile. “My dear man, don’t you understand?” he implored sweetly, “you’re creating something. It is unique. If you revise, if you second-guess yourself, you’ll destroy its spontaneous beauty. Never look back when you’re creating something.”
I glanced up, surprised. “How on earth did you know that I play the piano?”
He totally ignored my question. “Type like you play,” he gestured simply, as if it were the most natural, easiest thing in the world. I couldn't help wishing the computer keyboard were a piano keyboard instead because it was true, I had no trouble making music, ever. I sighed.
“Don’t stop, “ he warned, “Keep the fingers moving… he suddenly darkened anew, tapping the crop near my hands menacingly. “Tut-tut-tut….”
I quickly resumed typing: “…at a small desk….” “That’s right, that’s better…keep the fingers moving, that’s the song of it..” He might have been cooing a lullaby.
“But what will I say?” I implored.
“Doesn’t matter one whit!” He suddenly barked as the smile vanished. “What you say isn’t important. But you must keep the fingers moving. As long as you type, you make words, and the words make images in the mind, don’t you see? The words themselves make images in the mind.”
“But where does the inspiration come from?”
“From the mind.” He fired back without a thought, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“When does it happen?”
“When the mind makes the images. And the mind make the images all the time so long as you keep the damned fingers moving!” Crack! The crop missed my fingers by inches. I typed again.
“Yes, keep the fingers moving. That’s the key, that’s the keyboard, that’s the real secret of writing. One can’t make music without playing; one can’t write without writing. Epictitus said it best: “If you would be a writer, write.” That’s all there is to it. Keep the fingers moving on the word processor, and you will make writings, the journal be damned!”
“A door suddenly opened, then a colonel came in,” I typed.
He peered down, adjusting his monocle. “Ah, right. Haha, good, good. Yes, by Jove, and have some fun while you’re at it, fellow. Dash it all, enjoy the task. Writing should be a pleasure, like pretending, when you were a child.”
I paused to consider this.
“Ah-ah—tut tut tut…” the whip’s tip flickered. “You’re trying to think about it. Bad business, that! Thinking is fine for many things, but it’s deadly when you’re trying to write fiction. Much better to let the fingers just type. Don’t even look at the screen. Just play the keys like your piano…a song, a lovely, sweet song—“
The colonel, despite his bulk, began to sway his arms and pirouette about in circles.
“Get the rhythm going—la, la—let yourself feel the waves flow through you, as when you play a favorite waltz—“
“Excuse me, sir, what is my favorite piece here?”
He stopped instantly, his back hunched up. I realized I’d called back Mr. Hyde.
“Now I suppose that depends on which mood you’re in, doesn’t it, sonny,: Mr. Hyde wagged his head, refusing to rise to the bait.
“Well, yes, I suppose so.”
“To be sure. And so it should be. Your feelings will quicken with the words and moving of the fingers. You will sense the rhythms easily enough.”
Satisfied his point was well received, the colonel moved to the desk and sidled near. “And as in music,” he nearly whispered now,” it doesn’t mean you should never stop. Sometimes silence, a rest, is the most eloquent moment of the song, the silence between tones filled by the mind’s activity, which continues despite the silence, and dreams, and reflects, and anticipates…”
“So too with words. You don’t have to continue them endlessly, pecking along without thought and without pause, but pause here and there. Return the carriage here and there. Let your rhythms of creativity take you to the cadence of the idea.”
I suspected he might actually have something.
“Then when you’ve arrived at the idea’s denouement, hit the period. It’s a good, solid feeling, like a nail’s being well-hammered in. If you think you haven’t said something clearly or completely, hit the semicolon; it’s a good way to restate or elaborate. Or hit the comma, for a breath, or the dash—I love the dash—for a digression—whew!” the colonel dabbed perspiration from his brow.
“You know, I think you have something here,” I admitted. “Let’s see--“ I scanned my manuscript, intending to continue.
“No, no, my good man,” laughed the colonel. We’re all finished here. Next!”
With one firm Crack on my desktop, my work suddenly vanished! I heard a door open behind me. My lesson was over, I realized. I rose to leave.
“Oh, and one small word of advice,” he called to me. “Even though there is little restriction on content today, you really should try--well, never mind.”
“What?” I shouted.
“Nothing, nothing…” With a click of his heels the colonel saluted the newcomer, who had taken my seat at the computer.
“I just don’t know why they sent me here,” the student said. “I’m already a writer. I even keep a journal.”
“Do you now?” purred the colonel with a Cheshire grin, tapping his crop lightly in his palm. I grinned as I left.