The Fifteen Minute Novel: Day 148

The Fifteen Minute Novel is a novel written fifteen minutes at a time with each week day’s section starting with the sentence from the previous day. At least it is attempting to be a novel. For now I am just aiming at one continuous story, worked on for fifteen minutes each day. Started Friday January 1st, 2021 (in case you want to search for the beginning. I can’t wait to see where it ends up. It could be good, or it could be a mess. We’ll have to see. For now, here is today’s fifteen minutes.

Day 148: He wasn’t sure that was a class he could take.

He wasn’t sure that was a class he could take. It seemed specialized. “Like part of a mechanic’s class or a steel worker’s union thing.”

James stopped and stood, thinking about it for a moment.  He was certain other people made cast metal things.  “Artists,” he decided. 

The thought made him frown.  He put the last of his shoes in the row and went searching through his boxes for more hangars. 

He didn’t have anything against artists.  In fact he loved visiting galleries when there was time, especially the little ones that featured new artists whose names weren’t known and who weren’t the celebrated toast of any city or critic.  Sometimes the art wasn’t to his taste, but it always felt as though it was real.  Often in the big galleries it felt as though the art had gone through some sort of alchemy. It turned it from what was created to what was accepted as art. 

James always felt that many of the pieces he saw lost something in the translation, although he was never quite certain what and was never quite able to express his thoughts on the subject in a coherent way.  It simply felt different to him.  He liked and appreciated that the artists made more money post-alchemy. 

James shook off the thought.  He knew he wasn’t going to be adding an art class to his excuse list.  His drawing skills stopped developing at the age where he put down crayons.  ‘And even then I stayed within the lines.  All of the coloring books left from his childhood had neatly colored pieces.  As a child he had a habit of drawing just inside the printed line of the coloring book print so he knew the outlines of the section to be colored and then filling it in with the same crayon.  His coloring books looked like patch works of color stitched together by the black printed lines more than anything else. 

The height of his artistic talents involved adding red circles onto a tree and creating apples where there weren’t any printed.

‘Even then I drew the outline in black before I colored them in.’ James remembered picking up a black maker to add the apple spots to the tree before returning to his crayons.  ‘So the outline of the apples would match.’

As James unearthed a bag of hangars, he shook his head.  He knew he could appreciate art, but he couldn’t create it.  That just simply wasn’t how he was wired. “So no art classes,” he decided.

By the time James transferred his laundry to the dryer, he had unboxed a section of his bedroom and was ready to take several empty boxes back down the stairs to the growing pile in the garage.  He also came up with a longer list of possible excuses.  Many of them involved the possibility of continuing education classes and would involve a later search on his laptop.

“But there should be something,” he thought.

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