There I was, getting ready to put pen to paper and create something truly magnificent, when it came lurking from around the corner. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, I couldn’t even move in time to fend off the gruesome and bloody fiend that is….
It never fails. I start to gain a sort of self-confidence and excitement in my work and then that Jason wannabe comes stalking me again.
I’m sure we all have a little horror movie enemy who haunts our creative dreams. Those beings or creatures who just keep coming as you empty round after round into the their advancing figures. This is what terrifies us more than any ghost or alien. That boogeyman under the bed can go find another bed to hide under, I’m busy.
IT? – Well, you still scare the shit out of me….
As I went about my busy weekend, finding bargains, making plans, absorbing every experience like a sponge, I was constantly thinking about how each observation could pertain to a story. I am constantly watching my little boys discover new things or make observations I never would have dreamed of.
My eldest once called his privates his “top.”
I asked, “Why do you call it that?”
He replied, very innocently pointing at his bum, “This is my bottom,” and then turning back around facing me. “This is my top.”
I’ve never thought of it that way…hmmmm
Some people collect coins or wigs (I’m referring to you, Moira).
I collect experiences and character traits.
And boy am I surrounded by them. The characters in town alone could be an insane asylum cast. Not just the man who talks to himself. There are the employment dodging, young people who push their strollers back and forth from Stewart’s to their apartments with cigarettes dangling from their lips. Those are some people whom I would like to know more about. What is their story? Why are they wearing pajamas? Why do they love Stewart’s so much? Why can’t they stop dropping ashes on their poor infant’s teddy bear?
Then, there is the lady who flips off the men who drive by her apartment. She smiles the whole time too. Sometimes, when the weather is nice, and her windows are open, you can hear her screaming, ranting and raving to herself. I heard she was severely abused when she was in the rehabilitation institution eons ago, but who knows.
These are the people I need to sit down and observe every time that asshole, Jason, the murderer of my creative soul comes around with all my self-doubt wrapped in an unspeakably horrifying, bloody sack to throw at my feet.
I may not feel happier with the state of the world afterwards, but at least I will have something to write about.