I had one item on my to-do list this morning and it was simpler than Forrest Gump’s diary. Sleep in. That was it. It’s the kind of thing many government agencies do on a daily basis. Walmart employees get promoted for it. And let’s not forget Tyler Perry’s writers . . . those peeps make a killing.
So of fucking course I was up at four thirty in the morning. Epic? Meet fail. I mean, I was more amped than John Belushi playing a game of cocaine chicken. In lieu of tossing and turning, I got up and began practicing my Tang Soo Do moves to Rob Zombie songs. Because nothing says Sunday morning like chowing down on some piping hot Zombie and tricking out back hand strikes. Hey, if you’re gonna fail? Fail hard.
An hour and a half of that later, I felt the words coming on strong. My neurons started going mad Lincoln on me, and from there the shit just got real and plentiful. So I proceeded to spill my thoughts into the keyboard with words once foreign but now quite close to being found. See, I can’t think too much on ideas that pop into my head or it can send me into a panic (without the disco).
I once had a panic attack while constructing ideas in my head, and before I could fetch a plot for the damn thing, I reached for the old Ctrl-Alt-Del in order to keep myself vertical. I can jot ideas down, sure. But I use a short leash for the ideas that come to me, lest they pick up steam and become a rolling thunder which only serves to piss off my finicky brain. This affliction/curse/blessing has taught me one thing. Ideas are nothing.
While this would seem to run counter to what a writer is taught to believe, lemme ‘splain. An idea, all by itself, is a simple part of a larger construct; on its own, it possesses little value. It’s the piecing together, the advancement of ideas into a mosaic that makes for the bloom. You can’t beat yourself up over losing an idea that was floating around inside your head, because those ideas are like kittens . . there are always more of the little critters, and they have sharp claws. It’s helpful to remember that they will find you, not the other way around.
I got to gift wrapping these ideas once I had a blank canvas to paint, because that’s what I consider myself- a glorified gift wrapper, dressing ideas into nice looking words. And so I wrapped, turning smoke into fire, after which I thought to myself . . . Yanno what self? This would be a fun post. And to which I replied, Self . . . you’re a bloody fucking genius! . . . And from there we just went back and forth debating who exactly was self and who was the other dude. It got very metaphysical and much coffee was needed since I happen to be plum out of Oxycodone and my supplier is pricing real estate in South America in a futile attempt to stay ahead of Trump’s next big idea.
This morning’s inspiration was rocked into being with some marshaled arts and the book of Rob (Zombie).