Over Thinking – The Destruction of Creativity

A roulette wheel.
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You walk into a pool hall, a bowling alley or a casino for the first time.  All brand new and shiny, you are awed.  You take your first break of the rack, throw the bowling ball down the lane for the first time, or you bet it all on black.

WINNER! WINNER! WINNER!

Wow, this is easy!  You think.. but then you actually do start to think.  And then before you know it, you are scratching on the pool table or sinking the 8 ball prematurely.  Your bowling ball keeps gravitating to the gutter and you’re pretty sure you should leave the casino before you sign your kids over to the roulette wheel dealer.

Every time we over think something, we destroy the creativity and naturalness of what is to be.

Let’s take writing our plot for our story or blog.  We break it down into small pieces in an outline.  We have topics, sub topics, and then we have all the goodies to stuff inside.  I don’t know about you… but when it comes to writing fiction, I have to leave the outline right in front of my face.  I am still working on how to get it so that it is a transparent film over top of my computer screen.  Like back in the day with those projector screens in school.  As if!

Over thinking has been the creation of my demise.  Kind of an oxymoron, but I think you get the gist.   I get a simple idea, and then before I know it, I am adding too much sugar, taking out a lot of salt, and voila!  I have some nasty concoction that was once awesome.

Of course we have to have characters, a plot, a sub lot, and all the other cream that gets stuffed inside.  Easy… one thing at a time.  Outlines help me out because I have a tendency to travel on one road and then I see a little offshoot, and before I know it, I am writing ten pages about the sub plot (which is starting to interfere with the main plot) and.. wait, what was I writing about?  How did this purple Smurf get in here?  Damn my over thinking!

Sometimes we need something along the lines of a purple Smurf.  Maybe your purple Smurf has a dog named Vlad that shoots flames out of his paws.  Who knows.  It is good to have a scratch pad or something to the side (I do this.. it gets the distractions out of my head) to doodle your cockamamie ideas.

You never know…. getting it out of your over active imagination might lead you to something big!  For today, there is only do, or do not.  There is no over thinking.

If I Could Create My Own Half Hour Show

If I could create my own half hour show; no holds barred.  It would probably be a cross between the earlier years of the tv show Roseanne (which I can identify with) and Night Rider.  I would play the lead role.  I’d be an insecure teenager living in a blue-collar home with a domineering mother and a father who drinks too much.  I’d go to school and be miserable in plain sight.

But at the end of the day, when all are fast asleep:

I’d sneak out my bedroom window with my cloaking device and silent shoes.  I would hover down to the driveway which is to the far left of my bedroom window and summon my bad ass 1970 Monte Carlo with a bored out 350 engine and 4 barrel carburetor.  I would get messages from my dog Snippet, who runs the operation from his doghouse in the back yard.    Snippet’s doghouse greatly resembles Snoopy‘s doghouse from Peanuts: small and average on the outside but kicking it bigtime on the inside. Snippet would update me on people to assist and avenge.  I would do the job for free because it gets me out of the house.  Snippet can leave his house when ever he wants, so he begs me to ask those who require our assistance for doggie treats.  Snippet does not like Beggin’ Strips

In my Emerald Green Monte Carlo I chirp second gear and rush to the aid of a young boy whose cat happens to be in a tree three blocks west.  Snippet, now in the front seat, asks me why we have to save the damn cat.  “It’s just a cat,” he howls.

“There, there Snippet.  Cats never hurt you,”  I whisper.  Snippet and I get into a philosophical conversation about cats and dogs as he tells me how the movie by the same name did no justice to dogs.  I concur to appease ol’ Snippet.

Just as I turn the corner, I spot the tree.  I put the car in neutral and roll quietly into a perfect parking spot near the maple tree which looks out of place in front of the yellow sided house on a small city street.  I get out of the car.  My cloaking device and silent shoes now activated, I sneak up the tree and grab the howling cat by the neck.   I look over to the house that belongs to the tree and see a boy in my class staring out the window.  He saw me.  I hover over to his window. 

“You’re dreaming.  Go back to sleep,” I say hoping that it works.  I do not yet have the ability of mind control.  I hand the cat to the boy as he puts his arms out. 

“Thanks,” he stutters.

“No problem,” as I turn I remember, “Do you have any doggie treats, boy?” 

The kid disappears for a moment and comes back with some Whiskas cat treats.  “Will this do?”

Snippet won’t know the difference.  I tip my hat, and bid the boy ado.

I go back to my idling Monte Carlo, Snippet is glaring at me and won’t acknowledge me for the next three days.  That’s okay.  Extra treats for Snippet for behaving. 

I pull up a half block from my house, my mother is awake on the couch watching some night-time soap opera.  I tell my Monte Carlo to park until next time.  Without a rumble, the car takes off.

My father is passed out in his chair.  I order Snippet back to his abode.  He goes graciously.  I use my cloaking device and silent shoes to sneak in through the back door and up to my bedroom.

I did my good deed for this episode.

That is my first idea born from boredom for ridiculous half hour comedy/drama show.  Gotta love sitting staring at a blank screen!

Ooh Ooh.. Growing Up..

When I was a teenager I thought I knew everything.. I guess most teenagers feel this way. I have a teenage daughter, and I see a lot of myself in her.

Remember when we were fourteen or fifteen and we thought our parents were idiots, totally uncool and basically, had no idea what they were talking about?  Yeah, that’s where I am now.  I find myself repeating a lot of the ideals that were told to me at that fork in the road age.

I remember my first heartbreak.  Ugh.  I was so devastated! I was totally head over heels in love with a boy that lived around the corner.. he was kind of cocky, super cute and really wanted nothing to do with me.. I am not sure why it was this last quality that attracted me most to this boy.  Perhaps it was the fact that my father ignored me for most of my childhood and since I couldn’t get his attention, I could try to get a boy’s attention.

Needless to say, he wanted nothing to do with me.  So I decided to date his older brother.  Yeah, not the best idea.  He was a really nice guy (ack!) and I just didn’t pine for him like I pined for his brother.  Strike one.  I dated the older brother for about three weeks and then the kid I crushed on decided to test my loyalties to his older brother.  He told his brother (I came to find out later) that he was going to flirt with me and that I would ditch older brother.  Younger brother nailed it.   He was pretty smart for a sixteen year old, and I was devastated when he said to me, “I knew you didn’t like my brother, so I tricked you.”  Nice, eh?  However, I did like his older brother.  He was tall and he made me laugh with his Peter Gabriel and Kinks impressions.  But his brother liked me too.

I was so crushed by the “trick” played on me (which was one of a few different boys played on me) that I had enough and decided that it was time to get on with it.  It was time to die.

I went into my room, I put on some Pink Floyd, took the razor blade I got from my dad’s top drawer and slit my wrists.  Extreme, I know.  But no one knew who I was.  No one understood me.  No one got what I was going through.  Certainly not my parents.  They were never really around at that crucial teen stage and it didn’t matter anyway.  I felt it was too late for me. I was screwed.

I still have those scars on my wrists.  They are a haunting reminder of how unhappy I was.  The pictures of me around that time (none of which I am smiling in) are haunting reminders as well. I now use those scars to remind people about depression and suicidal thoughts should they ask.  Not many do.

If I could go back and talk to myself, I would tell me that it was all going to be okay.  That I was going to grow up and be a beautiful woman so smart and too wise.  I would tell myself that everyone goes through  a heartbreak or two and that it is the heartbreaks, failures and things that don’t work out that make us wiser and keep us strong.  It is those things that help us to grow into strong, resilient individuals.  I would tell me to have faith, it will all work out.

It always does.

Picture courtesy of www.weheartit.com

Muscled By Geese

Since I am having a hard time finding pictures online of items, animals, sports teams, musicians, etc., I decided to go out on this beautiful Sunday afternoon to take some pictures.

I didn’t have a huge amount of luck, as I did not travel far.  I get like that.  I don’t really want to be around people sometimes (of course looking like I just stepped off a street corner may have had something to do with that).

I did make myself walk into Starbucks and get a coffee.   I went to the one in Yardley, PA by the lake next to a church.  Both the Starbucks and the church are close to the road.  The lake is overrun with geese and ducks who have no problem approaching someone with a tasty treat.  I ate most of the banana nut bread I purchased.  I looked up to see a pair of eyeballs staring back at me.

About To Get Muscled For My Tasty Treat

Now, a rational person would just chuckle perhaps.  “Aww, look at the adorable geese!”

Not me.

I was bitten by a goose when I was a wee lass.  Now, I am nervous around geese.  And I mean, really.  They have those black hoods that hide their beady eyeballs.  Never trust something or someone you can’t look directly in the eye.

Needless to say, I ate about five morsels of my bread.  The nerves really started to go crazy as the geese approached closer.  There were ducks not too far behind.

I threw a piece of bread into the lake.   The geese careened on it like vultures on a carcass.  I stood and watched, sure I was safe for a moment.   The geese swallowed down the sopping bread.  They hissed at each other.  It was a battle of wills until the bread was gone.  A motorcycle roared by, snapping me back to reality.   Geese were staring me down, waiting for more.   My left arm threw small pieces of bread as far as it could muster.

I made a mental note to get back to the gym and high tailed it out of there.