Ramblings Post #141
First you need a main character. They need to have a flaw or two, nobody likes perfect, but a redeeming quality that makes them likable. They need to be whole people, not just cardboard cutouts to perform the fictional action, but a background needs to be devised. If the background is good enough you won't have to write the story...it will write itself. Oh, and they need a distinctive name. The kind that makes you repeat it to yourself. That's how you start.
Sometimes I wish I didn't have so good an imagination.
As I've indicated, I write a lot. It's like a valve to let all the various thoughts in my head out, because if I don't commit them to paper...um, digital file... I just keep rehashing them over and over, tweaking and honing it into infinity. But that really doesn't help much, because each old idea out is replaced by a new idea or concept. I wrote up something yesterday and today I came up with a new idea for something else I'm have to gonna put together at some point. I'm like a older black version of Barry Ween, I just can't stop thinking.!
The stuff I feel I can commit to paper is just the part of it. A great deal thought involves Sporty, in the various ways a man thinks of a woman. Use your own imagination.
And if that was it, I might consider myself normal. Well for most of the stuff. The vast majority of the stuff. We're both adults. But, before I digress too far, my mind also puts together the bad possibilities as well, playing out worst case scenarios over and over making me question what's going on with my psyche. Why would I entertain these incredibly unpleasant, painful thoughts? Is my mind preparing me for what it sees is inevitable?
In my mind I've imagined incidents that bruise the soul: angry phone calls, fights, screaming, rejection, that day that one day I may have to experience, growing old alone and running into her years later, and many other moments I never want to see in reality. In real life our disagreements are so rare, end so quickly, it's odd. My mind is playing tricks on me with this. Not that I don't imagine other good possibilities: the trips, cooking for her, and sometimes even mundane activities, but the mental horror compilation is playing on far more cerebral movie screens than the romantic comedy in which I cast us [side note: Sporty likes horror movies]. What am I doing to myself?
One of my great inhibitors with Sporty, was that I never could figure out why she liked me. I was in essence a slovenly hedonist at the time we started hanging out. Some women liked me because I was smart, some because I was funny, some because I was nicer than the guys I hung out with. But because I couldn't figure why Sporty claimed me, a lot of my actions were based around the idea that too bold a move would drive her away. I had seen it before, and she'd become too important to me. As a consequence, I imagined the most typical bad situations and how to avoid them. Still didn't work. Now for some reason I can't stop thinking about the bad things.
But where there is life, there is hope.
I live on hope. I have lived on hope pretty much all my life. Hope, bravado and quick thinking.
Vince Lombardi once said, we don't lose...we just run out of time. There are a lot of things you can cut your losses on, this ain't one of them. Play to win baby. Play to win.
Barkeep. You know the drill.