My father is so proud.
For years now, every chance I get, ideas just flow out of me like I am a faucet or a hose or some other instrument that water can gush out of. I sit, I pause for dramatic effect and then my fingers dance all over the keyboard often creating words and other times allowing the spell check to work it's wonders. It's never been hard for me to think of what to say or how to say it or even who to whisper it to on warm summer evenings in dark alleys.
My problems (or at least the ones pertaining to writing) have always been finding enough time to write as well as picking and choosing what to write about when time presents itself. There is usually just never enough time and I've been meaning to complain to someone about this for a while now, but I'm always just too busy and unshaven. Time, as someone wise once said in an all-together-way-too-condescending manner, is fleeting as is money, chocolate sprinkles on my daughter's ice cream cone and the sands of youth in the hour glass that is life.
And when there is time to author a new piece of writing, it's not like I can just drop everything (especially when transporting miniature glass or porcelain figurines as I often am) and write. I have to cook, bathe, exercise and groom bonsai plants in that order. And when there is time? Well, where four hours could easily be filled, I often have to make do with less than one and am forced to almost literally throw ideas at the screen (making sure said ideas have wiped their feet at the door first).
I often feel like a hydroelectric dam (for reasons I contractually am not able to expand upon at the moment) in that I have so many ideas and thoughts and drafts and ideas for what to do with that huge block of feta cheese occupying prime real estate in my fridge and just a small chute for all of those to come out of. I like to call the chute "Fred", while my friend Fred is wondering how to feel about that.
The types of pieces I love/am compelled to write naturally change as time goes on. Sometimes I try to resist change and other times I just wear tighter shirts which, oddly, has the same desired effect. Sometimes I write about ridiculous scenarios or relationships; other times I want to discuss aspects of my work and then there are the other I write to give all of the voices in my head a turn before they fly south for winter. Pieces vary from the super short to the grossly long with each type occupying a special place in my heart - I believe it's the left valve.
But, as I have said and am running the risk of repeating myself which is good as I am trying to live more risky (or was that risque) in my 40s, I have never had nary a problem of knowing what to type. My desire to maul readers with my writing is akin to how a bear desires to maul my readers too, if given an opportunity (are you free next Thursday?). The only times in my past when I just couldn't produce creatively were when I was so tired or so hungry or so...let's just say that straight jackets are not my first choice of writing attire.
Until it happened.
I'll never forget where I was at that moment, as it just happened a few days ago and I was at home and I live there and it's just so easy to remember and would be more of a concern if I forgot. Don't get me wrong, I forget tons of other things, just not this; not now, not here, not with all of those hungry mouths depending on me.
So, one day, at a regularly scheduled time, I sat, opened my computer, scratched a few places on my body, barked inspirational slogans at myself in the mirror until I began to weep uncontrollably due to the sheer amount of inspiration as well as how angry I seemed in the mirror. And then I began to write.
Except I didn't.
I kept starting first sentences that were amazing in their horribleness. I kept coming up with ideas before berating myself for how mundane and simple and lacking any "funny" they were. Other times a seemingly "bad" idea could be turned and twisted and played with, sort of like diapering an infant or an older child if they are still having "issues". But that day? I just sat there, intensely staring at the screen almost as if I was pleading for the screen to do something about this. But screens are notorious for being silent witnesses, and deep down inside I knew that.
I sat there. Frozen as if an ice queen. Damn soothsayer! I looked at my ghost-like reflection in the white word processing screen and wondered how my life would be if I really was that white. It's not as if I wasn't excited to write. It's not as if I had anything else better to do (something my loved ones are always reminding me of). And it's not as if I didn't have tons of drafts in various stages of completion that would have loved to have been worked on (I like to see my drafts like little children that need to be fed or like cubes of cheese that need to be eaten or even like small little half-child/half-cheese creatures that are super fun to play with until summer hits and then they are at serious risk of melting).
As I tried to get started I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into a hole of my own creation (little known fact - I am a veritable virtuoso when it comes to digging holes). And then it hit me (with it being my hand, or at least I thought it was my hand)! This was entirely my fault, just like it was my fault those tomato plants died in my garden when I decided to withhold their water as some sort of social experiment. I have, at the moment, between my two blogs, well over 100 drafts and it's getting out of control and I obviously need some sort of intervention or support group or a good spanking (hopefully, due to a busy schedule and lack of funds, all at once would be ideal).
Maybe, just maybe, I have so many ideas and so many drafts and so many allergies that I have hamstrung myself (which is quite different from all of the times when I hammed myself - it takes so much scrubbing to remove the smell of cured pork from one's hair). Once it hit me, it was all so obvious! I had fallen into the most obvious trap, or more accurately, I had fallen and the obvious trap had been left out on the floor when someone should have just cleaned up after themselves. My inability to focus on one thought or piece at a time had contributed to this state.
But, it wasn't all my fault (it never is, I'm always telling my gerbils - there is no way I could have gnawed all of that plastic on my own). The rapidly vanishing time, the rapidly decreasing dexterity in my fingers, the rapidly increasing weight of expectations to "blow people away" and "use proper punctuation" and "cut out all slurs" have all played a role as well.
How I yearn for the days gone by where huge expanses of time combined with the relative youth and naivete of 2014 as well as a diet consisting of huge amounts of insoluble fibre! Back in the days when writing was something I "did" instead of something that is "done to me". Back in the days when I could be happy with a "good" idea that was "mostly" funny and "sort of" sensical. Back in the days when boys would be boys and Tommy was just being Tommy and feedback rolled off my back (never hurts to ask for feedback to be inserted into a cylindrical tube first).
As I sat there on that fateful day and all of these thoughts crystallized in my head (note to self - think less sharp and pointy ideas next time) I discovered a resolve that I thought was unachievable. This resolve shocked me and threw me for a loop, which is not nearly as impressive as it sounds as I am almost always mid-loop.
Except I didn't.
I kept starting first sentences that were amazing in their horribleness. I kept coming up with ideas before berating myself for how mundane and simple and lacking any "funny" they were. Other times a seemingly "bad" idea could be turned and twisted and played with, sort of like diapering an infant or an older child if they are still having "issues". But that day? I just sat there, intensely staring at the screen almost as if I was pleading for the screen to do something about this. But screens are notorious for being silent witnesses, and deep down inside I knew that.
I sat there. Frozen as if an ice queen. Damn soothsayer! I looked at my ghost-like reflection in the white word processing screen and wondered how my life would be if I really was that white. It's not as if I wasn't excited to write. It's not as if I had anything else better to do (something my loved ones are always reminding me of). And it's not as if I didn't have tons of drafts in various stages of completion that would have loved to have been worked on (I like to see my drafts like little children that need to be fed or like cubes of cheese that need to be eaten or even like small little half-child/half-cheese creatures that are super fun to play with until summer hits and then they are at serious risk of melting).
As I tried to get started I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into a hole of my own creation (little known fact - I am a veritable virtuoso when it comes to digging holes). And then it hit me (with it being my hand, or at least I thought it was my hand)! This was entirely my fault, just like it was my fault those tomato plants died in my garden when I decided to withhold their water as some sort of social experiment. I have, at the moment, between my two blogs, well over 100 drafts and it's getting out of control and I obviously need some sort of intervention or support group or a good spanking (hopefully, due to a busy schedule and lack of funds, all at once would be ideal).
Maybe, just maybe, I have so many ideas and so many drafts and so many allergies that I have hamstrung myself (which is quite different from all of the times when I hammed myself - it takes so much scrubbing to remove the smell of cured pork from one's hair). Once it hit me, it was all so obvious! I had fallen into the most obvious trap, or more accurately, I had fallen and the obvious trap had been left out on the floor when someone should have just cleaned up after themselves. My inability to focus on one thought or piece at a time had contributed to this state.
But, it wasn't all my fault (it never is, I'm always telling my gerbils - there is no way I could have gnawed all of that plastic on my own). The rapidly vanishing time, the rapidly decreasing dexterity in my fingers, the rapidly increasing weight of expectations to "blow people away" and "use proper punctuation" and "cut out all slurs" have all played a role as well.
How I yearn for the days gone by where huge expanses of time combined with the relative youth and naivete of 2014 as well as a diet consisting of huge amounts of insoluble fibre! Back in the days when writing was something I "did" instead of something that is "done to me". Back in the days when I could be happy with a "good" idea that was "mostly" funny and "sort of" sensical. Back in the days when boys would be boys and Tommy was just being Tommy and feedback rolled off my back (never hurts to ask for feedback to be inserted into a cylindrical tube first).
As I sat there on that fateful day and all of these thoughts crystallized in my head (note to self - think less sharp and pointy ideas next time) I discovered a resolve that I thought was unachievable. This resolve shocked me and threw me for a loop, which is not nearly as impressive as it sounds as I am almost always mid-loop.
I stood, as I had stood many times in the past (only this time how I imagined an important executive or circus clown would stand) and then I sat, as I had sat many times in the past (only this time with a certainty that the chair was real) and then I started writing, as I had written many times in the past (only this time with a verve and panache from an era gone by).
The block was smashed to smithereens. I was back. A wry smile crossed my lips and, unlike a regular smile, I allowed it to linger for a moment. Was I ready for this? To be unleashed creativily? To be unchained (figuratively this time) mentally? To be unbelted as belts just don't go well with track pants? Yes, I was ready. I flexed my fingers, took a deep breath, and then plunged headfirst into the abyss.
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