I'm being pulled apart by horses tethered to my limbs.
The horses' names are The Spectrum, iChat, Short Fiction and Songwriting.
Each represents a different style of writing to which I have chosen to adhere. The dilemma I have recently stumbled upon is a cause of the overlapping of these styles.
The Spectrum is a good horse, and pulls gently at my right arm. He should treat me well. I've fed and fattened him moreso than the others over the course of the past four years. I nurtured him as a yearling, when he was first named Knight Vision, after my high school newspaper. For those years, he was largely ignored. I wrote a grand total of three articles for that bi-annual rag. I edited, perhaps, five.
Since being renamed The Spectrum, this horse has been coaxed to the size of a Clydesdale. His method is intact, his schedule firm and his style nicely dictated for him. He is however given to great flexibility, as is concurrently being demonstrated.
Songwriting is a bastard steed. His father ran from the stables upon two years of his inception. He is lean but deceptively forceful. He pulls with excruciating certainty at my left arm. He's a picky eater, spitting out oats, apples and all the food in between. Very little I try to give will please him, and he only chokes down the bitter writing to regurgitate it for the horse on my lower limb of the same side: iChat.
iChat is my laziest horse. He retreats to the barn when there's a plow to be towed. While the other three bear scars from the yokes placed around their necks, iChat's mane has gone unscathed.
He is not smart, as little thought goes into his often misspelled, sometimes drunkenly incoherent, monosyllabic ideas. He is not smart but he is wise, as he bears the inspiration and advice of my friends. He is the messenger. He plods the love of my closest friends to me from farms of afar. Most of my friends are lucky only to have one horse, which they ride all day and all night, leaving their screen names online all day, everyday.
iChat will eat anything. He snacks all day on away messages. A pop lyric need only be quasi-profound to be readily consumed. Even the thoughtless, "I am away from my computer right now," or a jumble of nonsense syllables will appease his appetite. For this reason, I love this horse. He has a cast iron stomach for ideas, and happily settles for the scraps of the others' meals.
Short Fiction was recently strapped to my right ankle. As of yet, he bears not the strength to do much harm to me in that location. He was placed there only months ago by the UB English department curriculum. His is the only one whose presence is required. I bought the other three from generous dealers of my own accord.
He is a horse of pure blood. His fathers of the same name have been tied to great men and women. These are authors up to whom I look while writhing on my back. Ambrose Bierce, famous for his collection of satirical definitions, "The Devil's Dictionary," knew my discomfort. While Satire pulled at his left, Short Fiction pulled at his right. "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" is his most famous result of rightward strain. Clearly, many riders/writers of Short Fiction have likewise adorned the rope of The Novel, a much more intimidating animal.
The Novel is cannibalistic, consuming and being fully comprised of Short Fiction.
The more I feed the beasts, the harder their pulls become. I feed them with the harvest of my fields. The apple orchard is sparse, giving sweet fruit only on rare occasion. I have instead fed them with the bitter tastes of the Brussels sprout patch. For now, it is all they will eat, as it takes another level of linguistic fluency to give sweetness the proper flavor.
The tautness of the ropes aids my skill building. I can only aspire to resist being torn apart long enough to make my horses strong and heavy enough for the pounding of their hooves resonate a respectable distance.
