Writer's Log #1: Writing Imitation

"The Alchemist" by Paulo Coelho

He was shaken into wakefulness by someone. He had fallen asleep in the middle of the marketplace, and life in the plaza was about to resume.

Looking around, he sought his sheep, and then realized that he was in a new world. But instead of being saddened, he was happy. He no longer had to seek out food and water for the sheep; he could go in search of his treasure, instead. He had not a cent in his pocket, but he had faith. He had decided, the night before, that he would be as much an adventurer as the ones he had admired in books.

He walked slowly through the market. The merchants were assembling their stalls, and the boy helped a candy seller to do his. The candy seller had a smile on his face: he was happy, aware of what his life was about, and ready to begin a day’s work. His smile reminded the boy of the old man—the mysterious old king he had met. “This candy merchant isn’t making candy so that later he can travel or marry a shopkeeper’s daughter. He’s doing it because it’s what he wants to do,” thought the boy. He realized that he could do the same thing the old man had done—sense whether a person was near to or far from his destiny. Just by looking at them. It’s easy, and yet I’ve never done it before, he thought.

When the stall was assembled, the candy seller offered the boy the first sweet he had made for the day. The boy thanked him, ate it, and went on his way. When he had gone only a short distance, he realized that, while they were erecting the stall, one of them had spoken Arabic and the other Spanish.

And they had understood each other perfectly well.

There must be a language that doesn’t depend on words, the boy thought. I’ve already had that experience with my sheep, and now it’s happening with people.

He was learning a lot of new things. Some of them were things that he had already experienced, and weren’t really new, but that he had never perceived before. And he hadn’t perceived them because he had become accustomed to them. He realized: If I can learn to understand this language without words, I can learn to understand the world.

(395 words)

Imitation

The chirping of morning songbirds woke him up from his deep slumber. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, and through the blurry haze, he looked out at the white tipped waves lapping at the edge of the sea rocks, tiny figures dotting the shore.

He slowly crawled out of his hut, feeling the gentle wind against his cheek, tasting the salty sea breeze. He whistled for Rag, expecting the shaggy pup to come trotting out from behind any of the sand dunes. Then he remembered the

He felt saddened, enveloped by the rustic quiet, and wished one more for the eager yapping of the yellow pup. Straightening up, he picked up the bundle of firewood that he had chopped up yesterday, slinging them over his shoulders. He started out over the uneven, rough rocks, occasionally slipping on the morning dew coating the rocks. His felt his empty stomach grumble, and quickened his pace as one of the dotted figures drew closer and closer.

An old man was hunched over the pole of his fishing rod, his hair dusted with white and the fingers around the handle of the rod gnarled and swollen. His face was covered in a web of wrinkles that spelled out his age, and brilliant blue eyes followed the boy’s every move.

The boy hopped around the final two rocks and settled himself next to the old man, dropping the bundle of firewood at his feet. The old man watched him with the same sharp eyes, refusing to turn away even at the tugging of his rod. The boy looked straight out at the sea, feeling the stare of the old man prickling on his skin. He didn’t turn or even acknowledge the old man, keeping his gaze at the lapping of the waves.

The old man turned away, his slowly loosened himself from his stiff posture. He stood up slowly, and the boy could almost hear the creaking of the old man’s joints. The boy remained in his seat on the rocks, feeling the moisture on the rough surfaces seeping into his thin trousers. Soon, he heard the sizzling of the heated rocks and smelled the crisp burn of the searing fish. He accepted a fish on a stick without a single word, and bit into the hot, salted flesh. After the last bit of flesh was stripped from the bones, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Hopped up, dusted himself, and was off again.

The boy brought his firewood, and the old man would fry his fish. The silent, the lack of communication. They had learned to understand each other without talking, day after day, week after week.