Michael DiMonte ’25
Thursday, 12:49 PM, December 5th. The editors told me on Monday I needed a story by Friday, but here I sit without a single word typed. All I’ve been able to do is stare at the blank page and think about how my Scholium career is nothing more than smoke and mirrors. My associate, Jack Gallagher, flew the coop weeks ago. I hear rumors that involve him, horse-betting, and Saigon, but I don’t know what to believe anymore. At the time I laughed, but now I wish I was in his shoes. There is no time to feel shame or regret. As Hunter S. Thompson said, “buy the ticket, take the ride.”
I ponder the “ride” as I loom over the blank page. The pencil to my left that the editors expect me to use to write something moving and serious isn’t even sharpened. To my right is a tape recorder—I can’t even find the words to flesh something out with a rant. What have I gotten myself into? Is this the American Dream? When I was given “Thoughts on Thoughts” I was a smiling, starry-eyed schoolboy wielding the pen and hoping to make a difference. Two months later, here I sit in the Senior lounge. A mess. When people ask, “Are you okay?” I respond in complex riddles.
I’ve been hunched over the keys long enough that I feel the scoliosis metamorphosing. I can practically feel a tail poking through my khakis. How I wish I was a tailed creature—perhaps a horse. I yearn for open fields. Like the fields outside of Saigon. I wonder if Jack Gallagher had the same idea when he got on that train that warm October morning.
Gray Collins just walked past me. I have to get back on topic. What do I write about? The thought that is most pungent in my mind is if the readers understand my manuscript thus far. I trust they do, but The Man with the red pen lurks nearby. I practically see him in the dark corners of the lounge. Or is this a fever dream? If I stare at the white walls long enough I can see a bustling Saigon through a thin veil of white film. A rabbit runs down the streets. My mind wants to chase the rabbit, wondering if it will steal carrots off of street carts or befriend a little boy who will take him on adventures. Perhaps this is the basis of my next novel.
I make myself sick. I’m a poor man’s Troy Duffy with these thoughts. How can I focus on my next piece when I can’t even make it through this one? Maybe I should ask the editors to fund a retreat—to Saigon, naturally—in order to calm my mind and allow stories to flow freely through my head once again. Perhaps this manuscript is not a useless account of a desperate writer, but rather a thought on a thought that even goes on to be a thought on another thought. This can be simplified to be called “the seedling of greatness.” Seedlings that will grow strong and cement themselves forever in the minds of readers similar to the tamarind trees in the soil of Saigon.
God bless and peace,
Michael DiMonte
