Monthly Archives: July 2015

Water Your Brain Seeds

The streets are dark, wet, and oil-slick black. It’s been raining. The storm clouds overhead reflect a burnt orange color against the city street lamps. Inky velvet skies speckled with fairy light stars try to peek through the muck.

Words have so much power.  Writing puts substance into thoughts.  It manifests your visions.  Writing things down, whether it’s a thought, a poem, a story, a quote, the beginning of a novel, a grocery list, it doesn’t matter.  Ink to paper makes things come to life.

I wrote those lines above on Thursday.  It’s Sunday evening now, and yesterday morning, it started pouring.  Thick, soupy clouds descended, and all my fellow pluviophiles started dancing in their seats and lifting their noses to the sky to smell the air, like a pack of wild beasts.  Californians get weird if you take anything away from them for an extended period of time, y’all.

(If you didn’t already know, California is in a ridiculous drought.  We are pumping water out of the ground that is 20,000 years old.  The old joke that California would one day dry out, shrivel up, and break off the continent is looking less… joke-y…)

We were greeted with thunder and lightning and a beautifully quenching downpour, and all it made me want to do was keep writing.  The rain watered the idea seeds in my soul and I feel extra charged to pull them out.

I’ve been putting as many words as I can scribble down on paper as they conjure up in my head.  I keep a yellow notepad on my desk, out of site, so it doesn’t distract me during my daily responsibilities… but not so far that I can’t snag it back up if the characters in my story start body slamming themselves against my cranium.

I have so many ideas at once and I’m writing so fast so I don’t forget anything, that right now, my Word .doc is very confusing and disorganized, but I love it.  I’ve always been a start-to-finish writer.  I can write a train of thought and fully flesh it out from beginning to end (with accredited references, if you’d like), but this story is different.  So many characters and places are popping up and wanting their story to be told.

I’ll get to you all very soon, my creepies.  But for now, let’s take a moment to let my finger bones rest, and to listen to the rain.  Tell me your stories as we splash in the puddles.

charles-bukowski

 

Come with Me Now

Kongos – Come with Me Now

Inspiration can hit you at any moment.  You have to keep your eyes and senses open to it, because you never know how inspiration will present itself.

I drive.  A LOT.  Sometimes I listen to my iTunes, sometimes I’ll dust off a long-forgotten mixed CD, and sometimes I listen to the radio.

I laugh a little when people proudly proclaim “Ugh, I never listen to the radio!”  While I understand they’re trying to convey that they don’t want to be spoon-fed what the music industry decides we should be listening to, to me, it also tells me that they aren’t open to new ideas.

If I didn’t listen to the radio, I would not have heard the song linked above.

The first time I heard it, I remember my ear being tugged by the accordion.  Maybe it’s my insatiable love for all things Carnival and Cajun, but the accordion made my heart happy.  Every time it came on the radio, something about it instantly made me want to turn up the volume.

I started gradually learning the words, and finally SHAZAM-ed the song to read the lyrics.  The words to the song struck me as even more interesting than the music composition, and it kicked my brain into high gear.

Characters manifested in front of my eyes.  Like a music video, they danced to the music and made the song come alive as a story.

I HAVE AN IDEA.

It’s still in its very rough stage.  My next step is to start my story board and help these characters flesh themselves out.  I really like the feeling this song gives me and I know bringing these characters to life will make me feel even better.  They are already scratching at my skull and they have something to say.

I write only because there is a voice within me that will not be still.” –Sylvia Plath