In the ten days since my last post I have been a diligent and productive writer and editor at my 9 to 5, read the Curious Case of Benjamin Button and thoroughly enjoyed every word, contemplated how much longer I should keep my aging but still-running vehicle, and spent some time exploring Chicago just for the heck of it (note: yes, I'm an editor who enjoys reading, so I should clarify that I explored the city of Chicago, not the style manual). I have done a lot of musing during this time, with thoughts ranging from the possible consequences of ignoring an obvious conflict of interest to calculating how much I should be saving to fulfill my goal of home ownership.
My brain is responsible for managing an exponential amount of data, mostly the products of my imagination, and I often wish I knew how to manually go into the "hard drive" and delete bothersome programs and add beneficial ones.
I'd add a program called Automatic Bridger that would bridge the gaps in the stories I'm having trouble completing. My inability to organize the middle (or meat of the story sandwich) has always plagued me. I know the beginning, the ending, and some of the conflicts that comprise the middle...but that's it...for just about all of them. Automatic Bridger could show me the links between my scenes, and sort through the piles of disconnected pieces to pull together a believable and engaging sequence of events. I wouldn't abuse this program, I'd only call on it during draining bouts of writer's block.
I'd also add a program called Eraser, similar to antivirus protection, that searches the hard drive for people and scenarios I've spent too much time imagining, and after quarantining them, asks these questions:
"Is it possible that this person or people are imagining you in a similar way?"
Me: No, I'm sure they are not. Positive in fact.
"Have these thoughts contributed to your well-being or helped you advance any of your goals?"
Me: My answer is a resounding no.
"Can this space be used for other, more productive purposes?"
Me: Why yes, I'm quite sure it could.
"Thank you. Erase of subjects completed. Space now free for something more important and reciprocal."
I'd delete the program that generates self-doubt of my abilities; the program that instructs the system to procrastinate; the program that supplies the excitement I need to sign-up for projects and activities, only to cut it off a short time later; and finally, I'd delete the program that craves Jelly Belly® jelly beans and other sweets.
But of all of these, I wish I had Automatic Bridger right now. I suppose I could call upon my brain, but it's so busy I hate to task it with more. Oh why not, that's what it's there for. Perhaps I should knock first to see if it has any time today to help me out. Wish me luck.
Showing posts with label musings of a storyteller. Show all posts
Showing posts with label musings of a storyteller. Show all posts
October 15, 2009
July 21, 2009
"Thirst"...Waiting for the Rain
She hadn’t felt a drop of it in years and the effect from this dehydration was taking its toll. You see, the heart and soul have a hard time giving their all without the encouragement that comes from that one great downpour that’s said to hover over everybody at least once. Even for those who aren't as fortunate to receive such generous portions, the occasional light shower can lend to a sun that seems to shine brighter than it did before.
Those who knew her well watched helplessly as thirst consumed her. Though she made attempts to feign a well-hydrated demeanor, her thirst had a way of telling on her—as the gateway to the soul, her eyes said a lot to those who cared enough to look into them.
Her days were spent going through the motions expected of her, anticipating that the next day would offer something new, but it was a futile wish. It’s up to the individual to shape their day the way they want it, but because she was so weak, all she could do was let the day and night have their way. Sometimes under the cover of one of these nights, she’d ask once again that the creator present her with rain—she needed the water so desperately. And since he rained so mercifully on the selfish and wicked, could he at least spare a drop for someone who always tried to do right?
She would observe others who seemed drenched in the refreshment that continually eluded her with no explanation. In between sips of what she was sure tasted heavenly, the refreshed mouths would offer words of encouragement that her time too was on its way. Her parched lips would smile in agreement, but deep down she knew they too wondered why the rain had no interest in showering her with its offerings—as it did so often for those who ran from it, resented its presence, and sometimes cursed its pestering when they just wanted to be left alone to dry.
All she wanted was to feel it too. To drink from it, bathe in it, adore it, let it fill her completely.
To bide her time, she sometimes stuck her cup into the local water supply in the hopes that the hydration she needed was right under her nose. But the water always tasted bitter; though she was certain of its inferior quality, she noted with frustration how the other drinkers seemed to have little complaints. Even so, when times seemed their bleakest, she endured the stomach cramps that inevitably came from the tainted supply that surrounded her. It was something at least, she'd tell herself--until her conscience and pride would force her to drop her cup.
And so, much like the state of eternity, there appeared to be no end in sight. She often wondered who else understood how she felt. Who else was tormented with a nagging thirst, able to enjoy only the occasional cooling splashes from those shaking themselves dry after torrential storms.
Those who knew her well watched helplessly as thirst consumed her. Though she made attempts to feign a well-hydrated demeanor, her thirst had a way of telling on her—as the gateway to the soul, her eyes said a lot to those who cared enough to look into them.
Her days were spent going through the motions expected of her, anticipating that the next day would offer something new, but it was a futile wish. It’s up to the individual to shape their day the way they want it, but because she was so weak, all she could do was let the day and night have their way. Sometimes under the cover of one of these nights, she’d ask once again that the creator present her with rain—she needed the water so desperately. And since he rained so mercifully on the selfish and wicked, could he at least spare a drop for someone who always tried to do right?
She would observe others who seemed drenched in the refreshment that continually eluded her with no explanation. In between sips of what she was sure tasted heavenly, the refreshed mouths would offer words of encouragement that her time too was on its way. Her parched lips would smile in agreement, but deep down she knew they too wondered why the rain had no interest in showering her with its offerings—as it did so often for those who ran from it, resented its presence, and sometimes cursed its pestering when they just wanted to be left alone to dry.
All she wanted was to feel it too. To drink from it, bathe in it, adore it, let it fill her completely.
To bide her time, she sometimes stuck her cup into the local water supply in the hopes that the hydration she needed was right under her nose. But the water always tasted bitter; though she was certain of its inferior quality, she noted with frustration how the other drinkers seemed to have little complaints. Even so, when times seemed their bleakest, she endured the stomach cramps that inevitably came from the tainted supply that surrounded her. It was something at least, she'd tell herself--until her conscience and pride would force her to drop her cup.
And so, much like the state of eternity, there appeared to be no end in sight. She often wondered who else understood how she felt. Who else was tormented with a nagging thirst, able to enjoy only the occasional cooling splashes from those shaking themselves dry after torrential storms.
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