Time Flies

When you are having fun.

I've noticed lately how time has gotten completely away from me. It is here one minute, then in the blink of an eye, it is a month later. Technically, more than a month in posting time. How does this happen?

I will not get into the scientific and revolving explanation of the sun and earth and stuff. Rather, I will shed light on this second slipping reality by blaming it on a “someone new” disrupting life’s routine. Assuming you are genuinely happy with this someone new, time can sneak away without warning while you rearrange your life to include this extra body. Nor do you mind taking that time to blissfully dance around this new lifestyle. (Right cuz?)

But it does bother me to think about this in relation to the inspiration aspect of writing. Why is it we are only really inspired to write when we are stressed or bugged or depressed or in a negative frame of mind? In other words, why, when in lags of writing, do we (I) resort to that excuse of happiness disrupting the muse? Are optimistic thoughts not worth the time to write and read about?

Why must creativity be motivated through melodramatic misery? I know it is not always this way, but there are so many good things to talk about…like unicorns and rainbows and little dancing gophers.

Ok, so happiness can tend to lack in motivating topics and skills. I still think it sad that society can lean more towards the negative aspects of life than the good stuff. When you read the news, there are stories of people dying, war raging, children hurting. Folks inflate drama to gain pity for some misfortune that has befallen their space. Games seek unhealthy modes of competition so one can feel good through the defeat of a weaker link. TV emphasizes the losers in reality based shows. It is no wonder we forget the good out there when we allow this negativity impact our days.

I mean really, it is truly amazing waking up to a blue sky lightly dotted with cotton ball clouds. It is amazing how sliced apples and cheese can tickle the senses. It is amazing feeling the breeze of spring tussle the hair from a car’s open window. It is absolutely amazing running through the smells of mountain air. It is even amazing admiring the bruises incurred from a great game of soccer.

Admit it: life is much more fun to live when you look at the world through rose colored glasses. Seemingly mundane moments now erupt with the simple shape of childlike joy. Then the time passes and you realize it is a month later. The memories are still in connection, and your past days look more like a photo album rather than a blob of wasted time. Not to mention: YOU ARE STILL SMILING!!!

So, the dance of trying to reconfigure this happiness is not necessarily a bad thing. We are just going to have to look to new directions for inspiration…like that class I took this past week, making some amazing knife handles.

Bird by Bird

Thursday, 20 September 2007

I have not yet been able to begin.
I have tried several times to just start, but as I look at the blank screen, I know that nothing I type feels right.
It reminds me of being in school, and a paper is due the next day. I know what to include in the body of the report, I even know how to illustrate the conclusion, but I sit, and look at blank sheets of paper. All because simply, I do not know how to begin. You know what I'm talking about. Some call it writers block, but don't you have to at least be moving before blockage occurs? What do the proverbial “they” call it when you cannot even begin: writers stall at the go line?

Anne Lamott tells a story of her brother. He had a paper to write. The assignment was something to do with North American birds, and like a normal student, he waited until the night before to begin writing. With a panic rising in his chest, he turns to his father the writer, asking, pleading, hoping, I assume, for his dad to write the paper for him. But his dad offers simple advice, advice which later Anne borrows to title a book I love to turn to in my own moments of writers fuzz. Dad says simply, “son, take it bird by bird.”
My cousin emailed me the other day, well, in light of my proficient ability to procrastinate, it may actually have been a month ago…alas my brain wonders…
Anywho, my cousin excitedly messaged me that her English class had discussed an excerpt from said Lamott book, ma cousine remembering my winds of praise over the book during her past visit. Thus a spark of inspiration. Luckily, said spark lasted over a month - with me, staring at a blank sheet of paper trying still to figure out how to begin.

I have them, several little birds of ideas fluttering about in a spiral, waiting to be drawn upon with letters, paragraphs, grammar, syntax, rhythm, vocabulary, WORDS. And I just need to put them out there, bird by bird, topic by topic.
Yes, they are there, nesting in my spiral. Such snippets come and run circles around my imagination while I am trying to sleep, the time already ticking WAY past my bedtime. Better yet, they come while I am driving and cause serious road faux pas as I try to write (yes, write…writing and driving, I do not suggest) a quick word or phrase to re-spark that train of thought when I am in much safer writing conditions (sitting at a red light). Or my mind is moving so quickly between one idea and the next item on my to-do list, the next program plan for my youth, or the next song lyric, which reminds me of that sensational idea I had yesterday for a title, what was I going to say about it? hm…the spaghetti squash needs to be cooked tonight before I forget…did the dog just fart again, phew he reeks…now what was I just thinking…

Think my mental flashes are job hazards in and of themselves, just wait until I pull out my soap box. I think a major excuse for me not posting my little birds is that lurking soap box, graffitied with ideas and opinions like an old sea trunk plastered in travel stickers. It is true, each of my topics stand alone…with me perched at some point upon a box with a “now here is my issue with this situation…” This actually does scare me because I do not like sharing a strong opinion in any direction, except to those friends and family whom I trust will offer decent conversation rather than degradation. Really, I would rather not share some thoughts on a public blog site so every person’s mother’s uncle can read and think me ig-nant. And really, I do not mind you having your own opinion, it is just that I would really hate to tell you how wrong and ig-nant YOU are!
Just Kidding.

My birds are there, I hear them fluttering in my head. Often, though I sit, and words fail. Getting these birds into readable print proves difficult. But when they do light inside my spiral, I will gladly toss them on to you…and though I will try to keep the soap box under the nest, I cannot guarantee I will never stand tall when something really pulls at my feathers. Just allow me to my opinion, as I will allow you to yours.

So, do you grow weary of the bird-brained vignettes? I promise to quit chirping about it tomorrow, when the early bird finishes her worm.