Week 16 Journal

Activity 1

I cut out as many scenes as I could, but a lot of it was Pablo’s internal dialogue that felt crucial to the story. I was able to cut down on a lot of it, but not that much. I think that even with these cuts, I’ll still include some of the the things I cut out in the story, although some of it did help. Here’s the first four pages with the cuts and the story in its current state:

As Pablo stepped off the train, he set his briefcase down on the platform to stretch out his body. He was ready for a new beginning here, a fresh start to his life. He had planned to make a more dramatic move – maybe across the country. He had always wanted to live as one of those mysterious artists in New York. He could’ve rented an apartment there and began his new career, but he couldn’t afford it. Instead, he’d taken a train from Los Angeles to San Diego. Not too dramatic, but it could still make do

He watched the other passengers pile off the train, dressed in casual attire, just as he was. He was wearing the best clothes he owned, a white shirt with a brown suit jacket and pants. The rest of his wardrobe was stuffed into his briefcase. And, in the bag he held in his other hand, was his art supplies. Those were the only things he had cared enough to bring with him.

He raised the bag so that the other passengers who were crowding off the train could see it. “I’m finally going to be an artist!”

A few people shot him strange glances, but no one said a word. The smile faded from his face. Maybe I’m going crazy, he thought. That’s what Missy had made him think, anyway.

He started to miss the people back in L.A. Or, maybe he didn’t miss them, maybe all he missed was Missy. She wouldn’t ever come back, though. She had kicked him out of their house, told him he had a day to pack up his stuff and leave, so he did, with no plan. He had been moving around from place-to-place for at least a week or two now, unsure of exactly how long it had been. It had been hard to keep track of time lately. Sometimes, it was almost as if time stood still.

Realizing he was the last passenger there, Pablo finally stepped off the train station platform. He had planned to leave earlier, but as he watched the steam roll out of the smokestack, and the wheels turn on the track, he thought he noticed something strange in the distance. It was there for a second and then gone. The train continued off into the distance as if nothing had happened.

He shook his head. Probably just a trick of the light. Clutching his briefcase, he headed towards, well, he didn’t know where. His aunt lived here, didn’t she? He would just ask to stay with her. The only problem was, Aunt Maya didn’t particularly like him.

“You need help?” Someone asked from behind.

Pablo turned around to face a man with long, straggly hair and baggy clothes leaning against a palm tree. [SS1] “I think I’m alright.”

“You got anywhere to stay?”

“Yes.”

The man walked closer to him, and Pablo winced at the smell. It was as if the man had been digging in garbage and hadn’t washed himself in months. “I can tell you’re not from around here.”

“And who might you be?”

“Who am I?” The man stared up at the blue sky and shook his head as a smile crossed his face. “Only they can tell you. But they won’t. They wouldn’t want me to know. They don’t want you to know, either.”

“Who?”

“Them.” He pointed at the sky.

Pablo squinted in the bright sun and looked to where his finger was pointing, but the only thing there was a clear, sunny day, with not a single cloud in sight.

“Who?” Pablo asked again.

“Don’t you see it?”

“No.” Pablo shook his head. The man had to be crazy.

“You are living a lie, young man. Open your eyes!”

Pablo flinched at the man’s words. He silently thanked the universe that he wasn’t as insane as he had thought. How could he have thought himself crazy when crazy was standing right in front of him?

“Yes, anyways, I think I’ll get going.” Pablo began backing away.

“You think I’m insane?” The man laughed. “You haven’t seen insane.”

“And I would rather not.” Pablo turned and ran, as fast as his legs could carry him. He didn’t turn to look back until he reached an area filled with small stores and restaurants. The man hadn’t followed him. He was safe. For now, at least. He set his bags on the ground and took off his jacket, trying to catch his breath.


After making a few calls on an old payphone, Pablo had found his aunt’s address. It took a lot of convincing, but she’d finally agreed to let him stay her place. “Just for a week,” she’d said.

A week was alright for Pablo. That would give him enough time to figure out where to go next.

The house was a lot smaller than he’d remembered. The slanted roof was built from brown tiles that were barely hanging on. One more thunderstorm and Aunt Maya would lose half of her roof. The walls of the house were so dirty that he thought they had been painted gray, not white. The grass in the front yard was mostly dried up and dead. It probably hadn’t rained in weeks. She wouldn’t need to worry about a thunderstorm, anyway. He knocked on her door and, after waiting so long that he was almost convinced she had lied to him, it finally opened.

“Pablo,” she said.

“Aunt Maya.”

She stared at him coldly. He may not have done anything to her, but her hate for him was complicated. He reminded her too much of her son, who had disappeared over a decade ago. Pablo had heard a story about how she had kicked him out of the house after finding out he’d been living a secret life; a kid and a girlfriend at sixteen, and Aunt Maya never knew about any of it. Pablo hadn’t seen his cousin, Henri, since.

“Take the back bedroom,” Aunt Maya said as she closed her door behind her.

The room was just as he had expected it to be, about the size of a large closet. It had a tiny window that had been opened to let in a slight breeze, but the air was still damp. He pulled the window open completely, just as a fog rolled in from the Pacific. He reached out of the window to touch it, and the white mist cooled his fingers.

He set his art supplies and bag on the bed. It was a twin-size mattress with only a single quilt and pillow on it. Too small for a grown man; his feet would hang off the edge. Besides the bed, the only other thing in the room was a nightstand with a small lamp on it.

Activity 3

Ending 1 (original ending):

It was nearly morning. Birds were chirping, and the sun peeked out over the horizon, lighting up the tops of the palm trees. He covered his ears, unable to listen to them. And, when he finally uncovered them, he could no longer hear a single noise. There was no sound of the wind, no faint sound of ocean waves crashing against the beach. The birds were flying away, in circles. But no, they weren’t birds, they were books. Books were flying in the sky. Pablo rubbed his eyes, but the books still flew in circles.

He started running. He didn’t know where he was going, but he had to leave. He was no better than the man at the train station. He’d probably end up like his cousin, Henri.

Pablo’s foot struck a rock, and he fell face-first on the hard pavement. His hands were scraped, and small drops of blood ran down them. He rubbed them on his white shirt.

Pulling himself up, he looked at the ground. It wasn’t a rock, it was a clock. A melting clock. The Persistence of Memory. He backed away from the clock face with hands that were frozen in time. He had to get away.

He found himself back at the train station, not remembering how he got there. There’s no way he could have run that fast, could he? No longer able to feel his body, he had no way to tell if he’d run that far. His mind had become detached from it, as if it were a separate entity.

He was about to cross over the other side of the train tracks when a hand caught his attention. It drew shut a curtain shut that reached farther than he could see, up into the sky. He turned to see the rest of the body, but there was nothing else, only a leg and a hand attached to each other.

Another hand reached out to touch his chest, trying to keep him away from the curtain, but he pushed it out of the way. “Leave me alone!” He screamed, pushing his way through the curtain just as it closed.

There, he stood on the train station platform again. There was no escape.

He held his hand out in front of him, but it no longer looked like skin. It was created from the brush strokes, just like the ones from his own paintings.

He squinted up at the sky, only to discover, to his dismay, that it was also filled with paint strokes. It was just a painting.

“Let me out!” He yelled at the sky and fell to his knees, onto a ground that had also been created by a paintbrush. Although, the ground was no longer a train station, now it was just sand. He was in the middle of a desert that stretched around him for miles. “Let me out of here!”

But, unfortunately for Pablo, he had already learned to see the world as a painter would. That was the thing about art; you open your eyes to it, and nothing is ever the same again. One cannot unlearn what they have already discovered.

Ending 2

He found himself back at the train station, not remembering how he got there. There’s no way he could have run that fast, could he? No longer able to feel his body, he had no way to tell if he’d run that far. His mind had become detached from it, as if it were a separate entity.

He was about to cross over the other side of the train tracks when a hand caught his attention. It was drawing a curtain shut that reached farther than he could see, up into the sky. He turned to see the rest of the body, but there was nothing else, only a leg and a hand attached to each other.

Another hand reached out to touch his chest, trying to keep him away from the curtain, but he pushed it out of the way. “Leave me alone!” He screamed, pushing his way through the curtain just as it closed.

There, he stood on the train station platform again. There was no escape.

“What did I tell you?” Pablo looked up to see the homeless man he had seen here only days ago.

“The paintings, are they real? Or am I crazy?”

“Neither,” the man laughed, “this is the painting. We’re inside of it.”

Pablo held his hand out in front of him, but it no longer looked like skin. It was created from the brush strokes, just like the ones from his own paintings.

He squinted up at the sky, only to discover, to his dismay, that it was also filled with paint strokes. It was just a painting.

“Let me out!” He yelled at the sky and fell to his knees, onto a ground that had also been created by a paintbrush. Although, the ground was no longer a train station, now it was just sand. He was in the middle of a desert that stretched around him for miles. “Let me out of here!”



Ending 3

He found himself back at the train station, not remembering how he got there. There’s no way he could have run that fast, could he? No longer able to feel his body, he had no way to tell if he’d run that far. His mind had become detached from it, as if it were a separate entity. Missy had called him crazy, but he couldn’t be crazy. The paintings were real, they were right in front of his eyes.

He was about to cross over the other side of the train tracks when a hand caught his attention. It was drawing a curtain shut that reached farther than he could see, up into the sky. He turned to see the rest of the body, but there was nothing else, only a leg and a hand attached to each other.

Another hand reached out to touch his chest, trying to keep him away from the curtain, but he pushed it out of the way. “Leave me alone!” He screamed, pushing his way through the curtain just as it closed.

There, he stood on the train station platform again. He didn’t understand it, but as Henri had told him, there was no escape.

He held his hand out in front of him, but it no longer looked like skin. It was created from the brush strokes, just like the ones from his own paintings.

The world as he knew it fell apart before his eyes, one that had once seemed completely real, but now was created from brushstrokes and paintings that were alive.

He squinted up at the sky, only to discover, to his dismay, that it was also filled with paint strokes. It was just a painting. Around him was no longer a train station, but instead a desert. His reality had never been real. The painting was him. He was in it. “Let me out!” He screamed at the sky as the crazy man at the train station had, but Pablo knew he wasn’t crazy. “Let me out!”

I think that, inevitably, Pablo has to question his sanity as he realizes his world isn’t what he thought it was. I liked the second ending that I wrote the most, I think, because it reveals my intentions for the story, and brings back a character from the beginning, because I don’t think Pablo would have figured it out on his own.