I have lots of problems (stop nodding your head!), but thinking of things to write about just isn't one of them. Sure I will go through short periods of time where I just can't think of something witty or brazen or intelligent enough to say which is akin to having periods of time where I just find socks so unwearable and funny (you want actually want me to put those on my feet?!?!?). Everywhere I look, everything I see and every person I meet and am tempted to either tickle or high five or buy broccoli from gives me endless ideas for characters to create, plots to thicken or soapboxes to mount (a dying art).
I could just sit there in some public place, minding my own business, eating jar after jar of pickles or honing my miming skills and transcribe the actual words coming out of the mouths of the people around me (just not babes, I never take words from babes - it seems cruel, for some reason). The pieces of writing that stem from these jewels almost write themselves with the word "almost" being fairly generous and wholly inaccurate.
So yes, thinking up topics or opening lines or a funny character or a wacky scenario for a short story or a recipe for new soothing balm is the easy part. The challenge for this writer is actually finishing the story or piece itself while the fire still burns inside (completely an expression for those unsure of any experiments I may be forced to participate in with my chemist of a wife). I will have these days where ideas almost literally shoot out of me like bullets or freckles that have just had enough already.
It is almost hard to contain myself as I am stuck standing in a yoga class or sitting in traffic or paying my overdue library fines for a book that I never even opened. I must look somewhat crazed/overstimulated/in need of a heavy duty tranquilizer when my brain is full to the brim of writing thoughts that are ready to bust out and escape from the prison of my mind which, if I'm being totally honest, is more of a day spa.
Those moments, and they are plentiful, when I am unable to create the moment I am smacked upside my head with a thought are painful (you have no idea) akin to someone continually and repeatedly squeezing lemon juice into my open wound no matter how many times I say "please stop dad". I'll attempt to put the ideas on an endless loop running in my brain so that I can reproduce them when I'm able to. By the way, endless loops don't get anywhere near the amount of appreciation from the general public that they deserve. There I said it.
But then when the moment finally presents itself and I'm either able to take out my laptop or my phone or my pad of paper or my Exacto knife, and I am able to furiously type/write/engrave my new, brilliant ideas the release invariably leaves me as a puddle of emotions and sweatpants on the floor. Once the ideas are out, I do feel a small amount of remorse as my brain feels a tad empty and in need of some new furnishings like a fig tree or an antique globe that will just sit there gathering dust.
Many days I will open and start 3, 4, 5 new drafts in this blog. New post, new post, new post I continually click with a gusto that is quite cute and endearing I often tell myself. I'll start a new post, pause momentarily full of something approaching pride and then, using my unique, improvisational style of typing, I will insert a short, grammatically-weak title followed by a line or phrase or two that will help me remember the quote unquote brilliant idea that I currently have inside me, just in case I don't actually have the time/energy/artistic flair/alone time at the moment to expand upon it.
These new posts will each be created enjoying their brief time in the sun and then, then they will sit in my "drafts" list of my blog like monks in some far off monastery who believe that some head monk is going to pop in at any moment and check up on them to make sure they are "behaving properly." As each successive new post is started and each old draft disappears further and further down the list inevitably being banished to a second page and out of sight, a small part of me feels sad. I believe it's my right ear.
Why can't I finish what I start? (allergies)
What am I afraid of? (bears)
Why can't I focus on one thing and one thing only? (genetics)
Why do I insist on asking myself series of questions instead of actually accomplishing something? (ouch)
It's just so easy to start things and, despite appearances, my intentions are good. I mean so well when I sit in front of this screen and make click clack sounds with my fingers on the keyboard as well as with my mouth to the great enjoyable of absolutely nobody who has ever heard them. When I create new posts I fully intend to finish them to the best of my ability, your honour. No part of me is just "creating to fill quotas" or "keeping busy to stay off the streets" or "avoiding doing the dishes". I would love nothing more than an extra hug, but not the limp-obviously-tortuous-for-you kind as well as to have zero drafts.
That's right you heard me or read me or read this sentence that I am typing or all of the above if you are looming over my right shoulder as per usual. I don't want to win some prize for amassing the most incomplete drafts because I am fairly certain that I created that prize in my own mind and, because of that, it is most likely not being awarded anytime soon unless I do all of the legwork. If I opened up my blog one day and saw no orange words "draft" next to any blog posts I'd be as happy as a little boy who has been given some unstructured time and permission to dedicate some of that time towards achieving happiness.
Therefore, the question still begs to be answered - why? Why create series of drafts? Why allow myself to keep creating new series of drafts when other perfectly new series of drafts already exist and they are still in their original boxes? Why don't I force myself to break out of this rut/routine/ritualistic hamster wheel like exercise that is all my own creation when I know what I know and can't unknow no matter how much milk I drink? I guess I am comfortable, or as comfortable as one could be given our family decision to lower heating bills. I am also not one to complain unless given some rewards for complaining. This method of writing is the devil I know and I go out of my way not to anger or frustrate or ruffle the feathers of that devil (yes, he/she is feathered and of an currently-undetermined gender).
And maybe, just maybe it is all part of the creative process. That's right! Maybe I must create 5 never-to-be-finished-or-even-touched-or-looked-at-again drafts in order to create one stellar (read: serviceable) piece of writing? Possibly. Maybe all of these drafts is my modern style of brainstorming where I throw things at the proverbial wall and see what sticks, which is much less expensive and time consuming to clean up than my previous methods of throwing actual things at actual walls and then having no one raise a finger to help with the clean up. Maybe I must create many many drafts that will sit there and be replaced with newer shinier models that make one want to laugh derisively at the silly old drafts whom no one in their right mind would want to touch with a ten foot pole (who owns such a pole, I've always wondered, what are the most common uses of said pole and where would you store it?). Maybe I am lost in the forest, figuratively of course.
I'll occasionally look at old drafts and wonder what was wrong with me when I thought up that idea? I'll make a face like when I go to friend's house for dinner and they are attempting to serve me overcooked cabbage or expired dairy products. Could I, someone I think is fairly funny (we share a good laugh now and then we do), have actually thought of that horrible and disgustingly boring and pedantic idea on my own? No! I must have been forced/commissioned/promised free movie tickets to create that crap. Or, it is just evidence that I continue to grow and evolve over time and become the writer I was always destined to be. Like a toddler learning to walk or a driver learning to drive or a baby bird learning to fly only to realize that "why fly?" as I can just sit here in this reasonably comfortable nest and my mother will come back and chew up my food for me.
Sometimes, late in the evening, when everyone else is asleep or mysteriously out of sight, I'll open these old drafts and read the writing within them and shake my head disappointingly at what I see. Did I actually believe those were good enough ideas to release to the hyper-critical public? Didn't I recognize the sheer level of retribution and raw-egg throwing people are capable and able to afford given the uptick in our local economy? Or was I writing out of spite in quite the same way that I exercise and select slippers?
But, if I only had more time to write the situation would be so different. I honestly believe so. Old drafts would be edited, improved and read the riot act (riot acts, by the way, are very long and are supposed to lull the listeners and intended-rioters into a trance like state where they are easily put to bed afterwards without dessert). New ideas wouldn't just sit there, but they'd be tossed to-and-fro, coddled and swaddled and bathed in a warm bath rich with Epson salts and lavender oil. If I had the time, my numbers of drafts would remain in the single digits (it's literally approaching 100 right now), thus allowing me to cut down significantly on all excessive number typing in the short term. With drafts being finished and posts being published I'd achieve my goal of being a well-oiled machine or at least a more-oiled-more-machine-like reasonable knock-off of a human.
And yet, more time isn't coming down the pike anytime soon (nothing is - should call a guy about fixing that pike sometime). Life is busy and there is just only so much time to creatively write unless I was to decide once and for all to stop attempting to groom myself. Or if I was to quit my job, bid adieu to my family and live in the hills with the mountain goats and write (I'm not sure why that is the place I always escape to in my writing-more-often fantasies, sounds cold and rocky which are my two least favourite types of real places to visit)?
But instead of worrying about finishing all the drafts or cutting back on the drafts or placing my wife's hand in a bowl of cold cereal while she is sleeping, I must focus on the positives. Instead of dwelling on what I can't do (juggle) and what I don't have (access to juggling abilities), here I am. In the flesh, covered by a thin layer of whispy hair (and clothes! Don't worry, I'm wearing lots and lots of clothes, mismatched, but fully clothed), busy, full of ideas, equipped with fingers and keys to type with those same fingers as well as keys to lock doors with. Ideas will continue to come into my brain, gather and mill about and, after a process similar to steeping or roasting or decaying, they burst out into the world for all of you to read. As my grade 3 teacher always said to me when I was about to go home "if it ain't broke, don't fix it". In hindsight, she was pretty weird.
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