My Sam is morose...
Jan. 14th, 2004 05:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
out_thereOkay, beware my brain. I kinda have an entry for Slod's Picture = 1000 words challenge. (Hey Slod, that was a multifandom challenge, wasn't it?) Well, I have a fic, that kinda works with the pic, and it's nearly 1000 words, but...
You know, I just started writing it, and now I don't know if... I don't know if it's finished. I don't know if there's anything more I have to say. It doesn't *feel* finished, but I don't have a conclusion for it.
I don't know if the sections are in the right order. That could be all that's wrong. Although I think it actually needs to be cut down, to be sparser.
It's a Sam Seaborn, post-leaving WW fic. (Signe, it's probably safe for you to read, since that is the only S4 spoiler in it.) I did write the end to it, and now it's only 100 words over.
***
Josh once asked him if he’d ever seen a therapist. He hadn’t. Not regularly. There had been the compulsory evaluation after Roslyn, everyone in the West Wing filing in and out of offices, talking and being psychologically graded. He can remember joking about passing or failing, about report cards being sent to their parents.
Some of the assistants had gone back more than once, but he’d just had that one evaluation. Just enough to talk about the shooting, about those moments where the only things that mattered were Josh’s laboured breathing and the dark stain on his shirt. He recited, yet again, what had happened and who had been hurt, with the same sincere eyes and slightly pained smile that the television cameras had loved.
They just said, “Thank you for your time, Sam,” and sent him on his way.
***
He thinks back on the White House with vague... something. It’s so vague, he’s not sure what it is. It’s not regret, or wistfulness. It’s not despair, or hope, or even happiness. Not sad, not fond, but just... numb. He doesn’t think he should be able to look back with vague numbness. The words don’t work together, don’t make sense, and he thinks but at least I can spell. Even if his words are failing him, he’s still a writer. He’s just a bad writer.
He thinks about the way he talks these days. He’s had four years of not having time to think about how he says his words, of only his written words being important. Now, it’s become a habit to refer to every third noun as a thing. It’s habit to talk quickly and repetitively, to try to get the words out before he’s drowned out by someone quicker and louder. By someone smarter. More cunning. More worldly. More cynical.
He thinks about his words and he just feels vague.
***
He considers seeing a therapist. Not because he really needs to, more because this is Orange County and everyone who’s anyone has a tan, a boat and a regular therapist. His mom blithely suggested it and suddenly he had contact numbers for the most popular therapists in the area.
Sitting on his childhood bed, he spreads out the discreet business cards, small rows of white cardboard lying in front of him. They stare back at him, but no particular one catches his attention. He thinks about making an appointment just to make his mom happy and then he remembers the way his dad baulked at her suggestion that he get therapy.
He gathers the cards back up into a neat pile, and leaves them sitting on his desk.
***
He looks at his half-full glass of water and wonders if he’s still an optimist. He does think of it as half full. Then again, he’s never heard anyone actually describe a glass of water as half empty, so maybe that saying isn’t accurate.
He thinks about writing to Toby, but the scratch of the pen is so loud he can't hear his own thoughts. He considers emailing Donna, but the words die before they reach the keyboard. He thinks about calling Josh, or CJ, and just talking, but he honestly doesn’t have anything to say.
He knows how busy the White House is, so he isn’t surprised that they don’t bother contacting him either. It vaguely depresses him, but when he lifts his glass, it still looks half full.
***
He tries not to read the political section of the newspaper. He tries to drop out of the world, to leave policies, Senators, Congress and votes behind him, but he still catches glimpses of it on the news.
When his mother asks him if he’s made an appointment with anyone, he laughs and stalls. He reminds her that he used to work at the White House, that if he wasn’t sane, they would have picked up on it. Then he thinks about Josh and broken glass and the Ave Maria. He thinks about Toby and his bouncing balls and eternal cynicism. He thinks about Donna’s flightiness and scattered enthusiasm. He thinks about CJ’s graceful isolation and the way she strives to be one of the boys. He remembers lies and omissions, compromises and backroom deals, adulation and applause, and wonders if therapy should be compulsory for everyone working in politics.
He thinks about the bullpen and realises they were all outcasts as children. They were all too smart, too nerdy, too tall, too sarcastic and just too different; they were never average enough to be easily accepted, never outstanding enough to be one of the cool kids. They were the kids who had their lunch money stolen, who heard taunts whispered about them as they walked the corridors.
The ambition to enter politics, the motivation to change the world, just seems to be a way of proving themselves to a world of childhood bullies. He wonders if political aspirations are worthy or just petty. It probably doesn't matter.
***
He wants to move. He wants to have a reason to move out of home again, to leave behind streets that he knows. He wants to work anywhere that isn’t California, New York or the District of Columbia.
He writes his resume and lists “Domestic Policy Adviser” and “Deputy Director of Communications” as if a title can explain four years of long days and longer nights, of adrenalin and ideals and action. He lists vague duties that really don’t explain how he influenced the administration or why he spent a Saturday researching the penny.
He half-heartedly writes application letters. The jobs are scattered across the country, which feels good. He starts them confidently but when he reads them aloud he only hears Bartlet’s voice and he can't discreetly ask for a job in that voice.
He can’t remember when his words last sounded like Sam Seaborn.
***
He doesn’t see a therapist and he doesn’t send any application letters. He stays with his mom and wastes his days sailing, staring at the sea. He only drives when he has lunch with his dad.
One day, his dad offers him another drink. Looking at his glass, Sam says, “It’s only half empty,” and states to laugh. He can’t explain the joke.
On his drive back, he buys a card and addresses it to Toby. In black and white, children hold flowers, and it says, “Wishing you every happiness”. He signs the inside and imagines Toby cringing at the Hallmark cliche.
When he gets home, he packs his suitcase, and thinks that some heartbreaks take longer to heal.
I don't know if the sections are in the right order. That could be all that's wrong. Although I think it actually needs to be cut down, to be sparser.
It's a Sam Seaborn, post-leaving WW fic. (Signe, it's probably safe for you to read, since that is the only S4 spoiler in it.) I did write the end to it, and now it's only 100 words over.
***
Josh once asked him if he’d ever seen a therapist. He hadn’t. Not regularly. There had been the compulsory evaluation after Roslyn, everyone in the West Wing filing in and out of offices, talking and being psychologically graded. He can remember joking about passing or failing, about report cards being sent to their parents.
Some of the assistants had gone back more than once, but he’d just had that one evaluation. Just enough to talk about the shooting, about those moments where the only things that mattered were Josh’s laboured breathing and the dark stain on his shirt. He recited, yet again, what had happened and who had been hurt, with the same sincere eyes and slightly pained smile that the television cameras had loved.
They just said, “Thank you for your time, Sam,” and sent him on his way.
***
He thinks back on the White House with vague... something. It’s so vague, he’s not sure what it is. It’s not regret, or wistfulness. It’s not despair, or hope, or even happiness. Not sad, not fond, but just... numb. He doesn’t think he should be able to look back with vague numbness. The words don’t work together, don’t make sense, and he thinks but at least I can spell. Even if his words are failing him, he’s still a writer. He’s just a bad writer.
He thinks about the way he talks these days. He’s had four years of not having time to think about how he says his words, of only his written words being important. Now, it’s become a habit to refer to every third noun as a thing. It’s habit to talk quickly and repetitively, to try to get the words out before he’s drowned out by someone quicker and louder. By someone smarter. More cunning. More worldly. More cynical.
He thinks about his words and he just feels vague.
***
He considers seeing a therapist. Not because he really needs to, more because this is Orange County and everyone who’s anyone has a tan, a boat and a regular therapist. His mom blithely suggested it and suddenly he had contact numbers for the most popular therapists in the area.
Sitting on his childhood bed, he spreads out the discreet business cards, small rows of white cardboard lying in front of him. They stare back at him, but no particular one catches his attention. He thinks about making an appointment just to make his mom happy and then he remembers the way his dad baulked at her suggestion that he get therapy.
He gathers the cards back up into a neat pile, and leaves them sitting on his desk.
***
He looks at his half-full glass of water and wonders if he’s still an optimist. He does think of it as half full. Then again, he’s never heard anyone actually describe a glass of water as half empty, so maybe that saying isn’t accurate.
He thinks about writing to Toby, but the scratch of the pen is so loud he can't hear his own thoughts. He considers emailing Donna, but the words die before they reach the keyboard. He thinks about calling Josh, or CJ, and just talking, but he honestly doesn’t have anything to say.
He knows how busy the White House is, so he isn’t surprised that they don’t bother contacting him either. It vaguely depresses him, but when he lifts his glass, it still looks half full.
***
He tries not to read the political section of the newspaper. He tries to drop out of the world, to leave policies, Senators, Congress and votes behind him, but he still catches glimpses of it on the news.
When his mother asks him if he’s made an appointment with anyone, he laughs and stalls. He reminds her that he used to work at the White House, that if he wasn’t sane, they would have picked up on it. Then he thinks about Josh and broken glass and the Ave Maria. He thinks about Toby and his bouncing balls and eternal cynicism. He thinks about Donna’s flightiness and scattered enthusiasm. He thinks about CJ’s graceful isolation and the way she strives to be one of the boys. He remembers lies and omissions, compromises and backroom deals, adulation and applause, and wonders if therapy should be compulsory for everyone working in politics.
He thinks about the bullpen and realises they were all outcasts as children. They were all too smart, too nerdy, too tall, too sarcastic and just too different; they were never average enough to be easily accepted, never outstanding enough to be one of the cool kids. They were the kids who had their lunch money stolen, who heard taunts whispered about them as they walked the corridors.
The ambition to enter politics, the motivation to change the world, just seems to be a way of proving themselves to a world of childhood bullies. He wonders if political aspirations are worthy or just petty. It probably doesn't matter.
***
He wants to move. He wants to have a reason to move out of home again, to leave behind streets that he knows. He wants to work anywhere that isn’t California, New York or the District of Columbia.
He writes his resume and lists “Domestic Policy Adviser” and “Deputy Director of Communications” as if a title can explain four years of long days and longer nights, of adrenalin and ideals and action. He lists vague duties that really don’t explain how he influenced the administration or why he spent a Saturday researching the penny.
He half-heartedly writes application letters. The jobs are scattered across the country, which feels good. He starts them confidently but when he reads them aloud he only hears Bartlet’s voice and he can't discreetly ask for a job in that voice.
He can’t remember when his words last sounded like Sam Seaborn.
***
He doesn’t see a therapist and he doesn’t send any application letters. He stays with his mom and wastes his days sailing, staring at the sea. He only drives when he has lunch with his dad.
One day, his dad offers him another drink. Looking at his glass, Sam says, “It’s only half empty,” and states to laugh. He can’t explain the joke.
On his drive back, he buys a card and addresses it to Toby. In black and white, children hold flowers, and it says, “Wishing you every happiness”. He signs the inside and imagines Toby cringing at the Hallmark cliche.
When he gets home, he packs his suitcase, and thinks that some heartbreaks take longer to heal.
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no subject
Date: 2004-01-14 12:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-14 03:06 pm (UTC)I'm all about the sorkin at the moment, so I don't think I could write SV if I tried. *g*