I cannot percolate story ideas for anything right now.
I’ve read some great books lately (finished Raising Steam and Mort by Terry Pratchett, both wonderfully satirically hilarious), watched art in the form of television (oh my dear lord – watch Hannibal – this show is poetry in motion, fantastic tension and so beautifully filmed/written/acted), listened to music (the new Afghan Whigs is sublime) that usually prompts more ideas than my brain knows what to do with. All of these things usually combine to kick-start my own creative juices to flowin, and I just plop down and write. Pfffft- witness the sound of my deflation ~snicker~
I’ve read submissions and prompts for new and old writing challenges. Nothing. I ended up with some disjointed brainstorming half sentences, that maybe on another day will transform into characters that I feel like I know, but not today. What do we say to the Gods of Writing? Not today. Apparently. With much ill will. *at least I have Game of Thrones to look forward to tonight*
I got nothin’. It doesn’t worry me, but it does annoy the ever loving shit out of me. When I’m in the mood to write and I find that I don’t have anything to say when I sit down, I get cranky as bugger all. It’s like having PMS while being over-caffeinated and stuck in a line at Walmart for hours surrounded by adults screaming with laughter into their cell phones while trying to pass off expired coupons and ignoring their children.
Yeah, that annoying.
I tried to think about something else, anything else – I enjoyed an hour of active yoga, a twenty minute savasana, a nice long hot shower. Trying to let go of the fact that I wanted to write today. I watched a little kid running laps around the courtyard, apparently from his dad’s yelled encouragement as conditioning for Pee-Wee Football (I thought that was the wrong sport for this season, but I admit I’m not much for the sports except for hockey) and my cat having staring contests with fat little birds sitting in our bushes. All of these things felt good, they made me happy, they made me feel calm and centered. However, coming back to sit and try again, I feel an almost instant urge to go whale away on my heavy bag. Bunged up knuckles would not be helpful for typing though, and I’m not one to provide myself with an easy out.
So, maybe today is a day to surf Netflix (I like, or love, whatever, to watch Gossip Girl whenever the manly man is out on the town on his own manly pursuits 😉 and dick around tumblr instead of create something myself. Although I feel sort of masochistically tenacious and will prolly just end up coming back to a blank screen again and again. Maybe, if come up with enough random lines, I can string them together and pretend that I was trying to write like Jack Kerouac on Benzadrine. Yeah, yeah, that’s totally what I was going for, completely on purpose.
Which is, I think, how it’s supposed to go. Sometimes, anyway…
Speaking of Kerouac, I’ll end this with my all time favorite passage from On the Road:
‘And for just a moment I had reached the point of ecstasy that I always wanted to reach, which was the complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows, and wonderment in the bleakness of the mortal realm, and the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on, with a phantom dogging its own heels, and myself hurrying to a plank where all the angels dove off and flew into the holy void of uncreated emptiness, the potent and inconceivable radiances shining in bright Mind Essence, innumerable louts-lands falling open in the magic moth-swarm of heaven. I could hear an indescribable seething roar which wasn’t in my ear but everywhere and had nothing to do with sounds. I realized that I had died and been reborn numberless times but just didn’t remember especially because the transitions from life to death and back to life are so ghostly easy, a magical action for naught, like falling asleep and waking up again a million times, the utter casualness and deep ignorance of it. I realized it was only because of the stability of the intrinsic Mind that these ripples of birth and death took place, like the action of wind on a sheet of pure, serene, mirror-like water. I felt sweet, swinging bliss, like a big shot of heroin in the mainline vein; like a gulp of wine late in the afternoon and it makes you shudder; my feet tingled. I thought I was going to die the very next moment. But I didn’t die, and walked…’
Possibly my all time favorite literary passage of all time, ever. Shit gives me goose bumps, son 🙂
I will not die, I will walk on.