Friday, April 23, 2010

Writers Anonymous

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A woman nervously enters the dank basement, walking quietly over to the chairs in the middle of the room. She clumsily bangs into a metal chair, wincing as it scrapes along the concrete floor like nails on a chalkboard and quickly takes a seat. Her palms are sweaty, her mouth dry, and she’s not exactly sure why she’s here.

My name is Indigo. I’m a writer.

My writing has gotten out of hand to the point I can no longer watch television or a movie with someone else, due to occasional bouts of spouting out the plot and sequence of events and giving away the storyline.

It’s been so long since I read a book like a normal functioning human being, without poring over newfound words and dissecting what I’m reading to see if I can find the author’s voice. I’m often left dumbfounded asking why I didn’t think of that and hell bent on learning trade secrets.

I have more friends and enemies running around in my head than I do in real life.

I lose huge chunks of time; only to discover pages of typewritten words I don’t remember typing.

Friends and family should be warned they may or may not end up being a character in something I’ve written. Fair warning I could be writing about any of you right now. I’ve comprised a whole horror book on my neighbors alone (then again I’m sure that’s rationally normal).

I miss conversations and stare rudely at people I don’t know, filing away details for future characters in my head.

It’s been days since I stepped outside my house, or wore anything besides pajamas. Sometimes I forget to shower. I simply run out of time, sucked into the latest WIP (work in progress). Of which I seem to have several spewing forth at one time. I can’t seem to be satisfied with one storyline. I’m greedy that way.

Several times in any given day I come *pinches finger’s together* this close to tossing my laptop out the window.

I tend to scare people around me with sudden bursts of, “Aha”, and “I Got it”, at the top of my lungs or sputtering on and on about characters no-one knows. It’s all I talk about…I don’t understand why it should be so confusing.

My house has dust bunnies that scurry out from hiding with a hint of a breeze. They’re bigger than my foot. I’ve learned to expertly stack the dishes beside the sink into mini mountains. Loved ones often offer up food in the form of buckets of chicken or Chinese take-out. I forget to cook sometimes. Laundry? - That’s depends on smell-a-vision.

Right now I’m imagining Woody the woodchuck, digging holes in the snobby neighbors lawn (He lives beneath my shed – the woodchuck not the neighbor), and dandelions are yellow paint spatters from nature’s brush, and I’m a twenty something that wears Ed Hardy High-tops (The last is true, except the age thing – no that doesn’t have anything to do with being a writer. I’m just thrilled to have gotten them for a mere $20, compared to the usual $73). Sue me I don’t act my age.

I’m prone to bouts of illusions that make life seem…other than.

You know what? I don’t necessarily see a problem here. Sure I can’t comment on blogs as much and rarely visit reality. But I wouldn’t change a thing. I doubt any writer would, maybe that’s why I’m the lone one in – “Writers Anonymous”.



Original picture found here

Friday, April 9, 2010

Escaping the Asylum of my Mind

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise”
- John Lennon

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Steeped neck deep in the latest draft I’m writing, I glanced up at the news just in time to see the close captioning cross the screen, “By Friday we should return to reality.”

“Hah!” I laughed. “Not anytime soon I’m afraid,” came out in whispered sarcasm.

The return to reality sentiment came by way of my local weatherman, in reference to the 20 degree rise in temperature from the norm.

I think any writer that dips their toe in the river of fiction, can honestly say there is a very thin line between surrealism and what life seems so thickly steeped in - reality. I know it’s not a far stretch for me. Perhaps its easier having found myself submerged in the silence of my deafness, or maybe I’m speaking for a larger share of writers than I realize.

The only way I hear my voice in this deaf world is upstairs, in my head space. I also get the lovely honor of sharing that head space with multiple characters who tend to be a little on the dark side. It may surprise quite a few of my readers, how effortlessly I write from an ugly perspective, compared to the delightful descriptive prose I often lend here.

Why is that?

I’m willing to delve into the frightening in order to discover the beauty hidden within the repulsive. Sometimes the most terrifying things in life are that which you can’t see. In that sense, I have a head full of broken, startling, horrid characters roaming about. They keep company with resilient, strong beautiful spirits. It’s an uneasy balance of both. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Such is life.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Black bird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
all your life
you were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise,
You were only waiting for this moment to arise,
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
(Blackbird lyrics by the Beatles).



Picture from here.