Fragments of a Scattered Mind...

It may seem impossible to believe this, but over the last week and a half or so, I have written over 190 pages of prose, which is a big step from most of my writing. Usually, when writing a short story or a novel, it takes me nearly a year to get the first draft finished. Now, I have the first draft of my newest novel nearly done. Hopefully, this one I can get edited by the writers group that I attend on the first and third Tuesday of every month.

On a melancholy note, one of my favorite authors died on Tuesday, 27th of January, from lung cancer in a hospice in Danvers, Massachusetts. John Updike was one the great prose stylist of his generation and will be greatly missed by most of the Literary Community. Amongst his novels, they deal mainly with the American small town, Protestant Middle Class. Currently, I am reading the first novel of his Rabbit series, Rabbit, Run. Following this I will be off to reading Rabbit Redux. He is one of my favorite authors. You should read him sometime.

For a little surprise, I am going to post the first chapter of my newest novel, The Fragments of a Scattered Mind, following thus:

1.

HIS MIND WAS A MACHINE THAT WAS UNABLE TO STOP

Laying uncomfortably in a small rectangular bed, Joseph Munglar looks up at the ceiling and watches a dusty gray and black moth flitter through the stucco ceiling, its wings depicting two sinister eyes, gazing down at the former literature professor. It is on this day, of all monotonous days, that Joseph may be released from this prison, this asylum. So, legs crossed, his mind quite sane, he closes his eyes, pushes his head against the feather filled pillow, and hums, a habit that has formed since his slightly short sojourn with madness. Suddenly, looking across the room at an opening door, he sees a nurse in blue scrubs, saying, "Munglar, come along. Doctor wants to talk with you." Nodding, he wonders if this may be the day that he may be let free, released, discharged. Knowing that he may be quizzed about his feeling and emotions, he straightens himself, rises from the screeching bed, and follows the blue clothed nurse into a grimy tiled hallway. "Come along, now," the nurse mutters, leading Joseph to a pale oak door. "Just knock and he'll have you come in."

Standing before the door, he watches the nurse walk away, his footfalls dissipating into a dull thud. God, Joseph thinks, so this is what it comes to. Standing at this door, awaiting my fate. So be it, I guess. And, without any energy at all, he brings his knuckles to the chilling surface of the ornately decorated door. "Come in, please," he hears a slightly raspy voice intone severely. Pushing the door open, he walks into an elegantly dressed chamber. Plaques are nailed to the slightly white washed walls. Certificates glisten in the ample sunlight that streams through an opened pair of oak French doors that look out upon a glassed in emerald tinted greenhouse.

"Mr. Munglar, please sit," the psychiatrist, Dr. Doitover, says, motioning towards a straight back chair that sit at an odd angle that slightly faces the doctor and his unorganized desk. Doing as he is told, Joseph sits and tries to get comfortable, but is unable to as the chair is extremely hard. "I know you've been here for about a month, isn't it? Right, a month. We've given medicines to control your depression, armed with the coping skills that are necessary in life, and have fed, clothed, shaved, and bathed you. What I am trying to say, Joseph, is that we can't do anything more for you here. You are the one who has to decide and act upon your actions. Over the last month, and during my observations, it seems that you are happier, you know?"

Nodding, Joseph listens, tracking his thoughts as the doctors drones on about the treatments that were prescribes and the thick packets that were handed out in what was obviously dubbed 'Group.'

"Therefore, I have decided to have you discharged today," Dr. Doitover says, thumbing through a thin chart, his thin horn rimmed glasses on the bridge of his thick nose.

Looking directly at his doctor, Joseph is in disbelief. Often at times late at night, he would lay awake, thinking. His thoughts were often jumbled, but he was often afraid as to how long he would be in the Chaucer City Sanitarium. In his mind, he felt that he would spend the rest of his life, wasting away as he composed novel after novel and short story and short story. It could be said that his mind was a machine that was unable to stop. So, sitting across from his careworn doctor, Joseph smiles subtly, a mere passing grin, and for the first time in a while he actually feels happiness warmly spread through his yellowing toenails to the long brown follicles of his slightly greasy hair. Since the death of his wife Emma, he had been in a long slump of semi-depression, often drinking to excess, sleeping with various disease ridden prostitutes, and partaking of tobacco-like drugs. And now, euphoric yet sane, Joseph hears his doctor tell him that he may leave once the paper work in finished.

Standing, he leans across the messy desk and shakes Dr. Doitover's hairy hands, saying, "Thank you. Really, thank you for the help."

"You don't need to thank me, Mr. Munglar. I gave you the tools. Now you just have to use them," Dr. Doitover says, half to himself and half to Joseph.

Turning on his heel, Joseph marches out of the office, down the hall, and into his cell, where he fetches a small suitcase that an orderly had brought in whilst he was meeting with the psychiatrist. From here, he retrieves all of his clothing, folds it crispy, and sets it in the piece of tan luggage. He is nearly ready to leave. All that he has left to do is to retrieve his writing, identification, birth certificate, teaching credentials, and a piece of frilly lace that had once belonged to his lost Emma.

Please note that this work is copyrighted and is not to be used for anything but reading pleasure. Thank you.