Have you ever looked at someone and think, “oh my gosh, how are you even alive? You have the IQ of a half-melted flip flop!”? I had one of those moments today…while looking in the mirror doing my makeup. I ended up smearing mascara all over my nose- not the best look.
In the interest of saving us all the tedious game of Can You Guess Why?, I’ll just start explaining away my makeup-wasting irritation.
To summarise my last rant, I just finished writing the first draft of my long-ass story, Thingy with the Jiggy (that’s not its actual title, by the way. It’s more…symbolically accurate than epic, I think. I’m not even sure what a jiggy is) on October first. In the interest of not deleting all three hundred painful pages of my whatever-the-hell-you-call-the-rough-draft-of-a-rough-draft, I decided to leave it alone for a week. Great idea, right? I thought so. Until my imagination decided to fuck me over again.
I was actually studying for once. I had an exam the next day, I was being a good little student with a textbook open and a pen in my hand and everything…then, the gates of my creativity crashed open and a swarm of ideas started stinging my skin in all sorts of nasty places. An idea stung my eye; great, now I was picturing a pirate with presbyopia attempting to find a treasure but unable to because he misplaced his glasses. Another one pricked my finger; I became Rapunzel trapped in a tangle of yarn as she embroidered a nightcap for her pet python. Opening my eyes, I realised that my finger wasn’t trapped in yarn, but in the middle of my textbook- the pages were really heavy. Then, a really big one came around, and bit me in the heart. Thus, my new obsession began.
I immediately started brainstorming, calling my a friend to help me diagram out exactly what was going on inside my brain, taking out my favourite red pen and jotting down plot points and world-building ideas and all sorts of crazy things…Fast forward to an hour later.
My imagination was spent, my hand was cramping, and I was satisfied with the giant stack of outlines and drawings that my stupid head had created. I went back to studying.
Skip ahead to yesterday, on my way home from the exam: I was looking out the window, minding my own business when BAM! I start picturing a specific scene in this new story. The characters were bonding (it was very sweet), and then killing each other (and failing miserably, the dufuses).
And now, when I’m supposed to be taking notes and studying for tomorrow’s quiz, guess what I’m doing? I’m writing on my blog….but before that, I was fucking daydreaming about how the anatomy of these new creatures should work!
Why do I even bother trying to be productive, when my imbecilic head is always attached to me- via my equally dumb neck! Seriously, my neck is constantly moving around saying vapid shit like, “hey, there’s a wall over there, let’s stare intently at that specific spot. Oh no, look at the swirly in the floor- could it be a caterpillar? Nope, it’s just a swirly. And there’s our old friend, the Crack in the Wall. We must stop to say hi…for an hour and a half!”
Image credits go to: http://innovationsimpleinc.blogspot.ca/2013/08/smack-someone-right-in-the-face-with-your-content.html
I know what you’re thinking: Ella, you’re a fucking writer. Being imaginative is kind of the point!
My rebuttal: Being imaginative is great, but only about the stuff that you’re actually supposed to be thinking about! What are all these thoughts doing, coming in and clouding my judgement? Didn’t their parents ever teach them that showing up uninvited is both rude and stressful for your hosts? And I’m not a welcoming host- I am the vampire of hosts. Get out, or all your nutrients will be sucked out of your via a straw connected to your neck, because you might be carrying a shit load of STI’s and I’m not about that life. Duh, I’m dead- how can I be about any life. Except soon-to-be-dead life. Logic.
For those of you that haven’t taken sex ed. ever, or bothered learning about sex:oral sex via straws will not actually protect you from STIs. You need a condom. Also, don’t stick a straw up there, because OW! Furthermore, lubricate everything.
Let’s go back to my original, but still incredibly unoriginal point: fuck writing. I mean, I love writing, but seriously? Does it actually have to push its big tush into my every moment? I’m dreaming about my stories now, and that’s not very polite. Sometimes, it might be nice to have a dreamless sleep, or a dream about eating ice cream or something. It doesn’t always have to be evil robots and sexy, misjudged thieves. Well, the sexy part can stay, but does the thief always have to have magic powers? Seriously, brain? Seriously?
Okay, now it’s your turn: I can’t be the only one who has in depth talks with my brain, even though I technically am my brain. What are you mad about? How do you overcome your brain’s completely frustrating behaviour? I don’t know about you, but my mind is basically like a hyper five-year-old’s, except with more dirty jokes (which are much less paedophilic and creepy that that sounded. Sorry).
Until next time!