Okay, I’m no literary genius. On one hand, I know that I am not in the same vein as Poe, Steinbeck, or even Hemingway. But on the other hand, I do most certainly believe that I was born with the gene for writing creatively. Nope, can’t draw, paint, sing, or sculpt to save my life, but I do have that special knack for making stuff up. My poor mind is in a constant state of creating: characters, plot lines, beginnings and endings, dialogue, etc. It never ends. I blame this disgruntled brain of mind. But for all it’s worth, I don’t mind all the confusion one iota.
These ideas, they haunt me, but in a Casper-the-friendly-ghost sort of way, not in a Poltergiest sort of way. I have many friends and they all are living in my head! It may be a bit overcrowded in there, but, hey, they haven’t complained as of yet, so who am I to judge? They are never quiet; noisy tenants. But gosh darn it, I love ’em anyway! I get so excited(keep your mind out of the gutter) whenever these thoughts come barreling through and I have no choice but to quick grab a pen and paper and start jotting words down as quickly as they hit me. I have to hurry before these thoughts float away and I’m left with nothing but “damn, that was a good thought; too bad I can’t remember it now!” Hey, give me a break, I’ll be fifty years old this year.
So here I sit, originally, outdoors, my dog at my feet, pen in hand, doing things the old-fashioned way. If I am to get my thoughts down before they melt away like hot breath on cold glass, I have to be quick. Writing it free hand, it comes out so sloppy sometimes. I think it must be my own brand of shorthand. Sometimes I can’t even read what I wrote. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. But write I must. Every writer out there knows the feeling. It is an addiction. A sweet drug that keeps us going day after day. A love of words. A hunger to share what is on our hearts and minds, and of course, in our heads. In our imaginations.
But, alas, the thoughts are slowing down now. My fingers are beginning to get some life and blood flow back in them. Perhaps my friends in my head have decided to retire for the day, perhaps they’re all going off to some party and leaving me behind, tired but sated, for the time being anyway. But I’m not disappointed. At least I know they’ll be back. I am their landlord after all.