I don’t know if anyone else who writes feels this way, but I’m fairly certain that most of my good ideas come to me via a demon that lives in my head. Or who at least visits my head from time to time.
I haven’t decided if he’s good or evil. The ideas are great. (One point for good.) But he doesn’t seem to understand that critical plot points or new story ideas should not present themselves, demanding my attention, while I’m on the highway doing 90 kph. (One point for evil.)
Seriously, I once wrote an entire song pulling over every block to write a new line. I’d stop the car, write a line then wait and see if more was coming. When no other lyrics seemed forth coming I would drive away only to have the next line slide into my head complete with percussion and instruments that I have no idea how to play and so have no ability to get down on paper. Thanks.
My most recent story idea has me leaning towards evil. The idea came while I was walking down a hospital corridor. It was a great idea that quietly suggested I risk sitting down in a possibly plague infested hallway to get the critical plot points down before they faded into “what was that idea” and “damn it, that was good, why can’t I remember” territory. I didn’t sit down. I took a picture of the wall that inspired me instead and hoped for the best (I can’t afford to get sick again.) Nice try demon.
PS. I’ve been thinking of setting my phone up for hands free calls so I can call myself on the road and leave random messages about writing ideas while dodging traffic.
Apparently my minor snoring issue, and constant fatigue are sleep apnea. And apparently my new sleep device is going to make it so that I keep breathing _all_ night. I’m not convinced yet, I mean do I really need to breathe the _whole_ night? And I don’t mean to complain about the strange diagnostic process that resulted in me breathing all night for the first time ever, but what thought process can take you from “my patient has a chest cold” to “I wonder if she is slowly choking to death every night”?
Apparently I’ve been defying death my whole life. Not something I expected to find out, but now I know I think it’s the reason I’ve never felt the desire to leap out of an airplane or cliff dive. I apparently get all the adrenaline rush anyone could need just going to sleep, nearly dying, then wrenching myself from sleep only to repeat the pattern (if the test can be believed) every five or so minutes until the alarm goes off.
I have sleep apnea. A fun fact I discovered while visiting two specialists and doing a half dozen seemingly random tests as my doctor tried to figure out why I catch every cold that goes around and then some. (PS. I still don’t know.)
When the doctor suggested a sleep apnea test I wasn’t exactly enthusiastic. I was sceptical about how sleep apnea could cause repeated chest and sinus infections and I wasn’t exactly thrilled about sticking tubes up my nose while I slept so they could tell how much I wasn’t breathing. But I agreed because Andre was on the doctor’s side (apparently I snore) and I was hoping it would lead to something relevant.
So I tested, and I have it. (I’ve been getting a lot of “I told you so’s and significant elbows from Andre who was apparently right…again.)
In good news, this new type of broken has resulted in me becoming a part-time cyborg and that can’t be bad. (I’m sure I’ll work my way up to full-time.) I mean as a part-time cyborg, when the robots rise I’ll be seen as one of them, right?
Don’t worry, I’ll be a benevolent ruler…mostly.
PS. I’ve been informed that having a sleep apnea device doesn’t make you a cyborg and that robot overlords wouldn’t need a go-between with their human captives. I respectfully disagree.
PPS. I wonder if my characters will start having less traumatic experiences now that I don’t choke nearly to death every night. (I hope not.)
I looked at my CT scan and this is pretty much exactly what’s in there. Don’t feel bad if you don’t understand it right away, I’ve been living in my head for years and I still don’t get it.
The inside of my head is classified.
Not the information therein, just the structure. Totally classified. So classified that the CT tech let me see the results of my scan on his little screen but he wouldn’t let me take a picture. The inside of my head is rated eyes only.
Given its classified rating, I’m not really sure why the CT guy let me see the inside of my head. He didn’t even check my security level. I guess he assumed that possession of the head grants authority of some sort. But considering I didn’t even know the inside of my head was that important I’m pretty sure I’m not cleared to see it. (Seriously CT guy, don’t assume. This is how leaks happen.)
PS. I feel a bit like a reverse Johnny Mnemonic. I can tell you all my thoughts, but information on the box I keep them in is strictly need to know.
None of these are my pen.
I have a serious stationary problem. Actually I have two serious stationary problems.
The first is that I, for whatever reason, have a deep need to purchase stationary. I light up when I see a Staples store. I once made jewelry out of Post-It Notes, and when I cleaned out one of the junk drawers in my house I found enough perfectly functional pens to fill a 2 litre storage container. Yet, with this abundance of supply I can still be driven to distraction by losing my favourite pen, which leads me to my second stationary problem; I lost my favourite pen.
It was green. It had a flamingo on the clip and it went missing at Vancouver’s Folk Fest this weekend (just in case anyone happens to find it). I’m fairly sure I owe the loss to some sort of pen karma. I just haven’t figured out if it was my bad pen karma, or someone else’s excellent pen karma. I’m hoping for the latter, and imagining some free spirited folk musician writing lyrics I wont understand with my green, flamingo pen.
Write on folksy maestro; it’s an excellent pen.
PS. My new favourite pen is blue. It has a constellation on the pen clip. We’re still building our relationship, but it looks promising.
PPS. There is nothing like writing about a small problem to take your mind off a big problem.
PPPS. It makes me feel super dumb to say I have a big problem, when my actual problem is invisible when compared to everything I saw on the news today. Must. Find. Perspective.
I don’t know why it works. At this point I don’t even care. I’m considering burying something under a crossroads. What sort of sacrifice do you think the old age fairy would like?
Apparently ignoring pain doesn’t make it go away. Who knew?
In other potentially unrelated news I’ve screwed up my shoulder so badly that the doctor can’t even say what’s wrong with it until the inflammation goes down.
The prescription is ice and rest. And according to Andre (which is usually frustratingly correct) rest means not using my arm even when he’s not around to enforce the doctor’s orders.
PS. I have no idea how I managed to hurt myself this time. (Yesterday’s wood chopping picture was from months ago.) Random injuries seem to be one of the gifts from the getting old fairy. Bitch.
I’m going to assume there is a magical fairy at fault for basically everything I can’t explain or refuse to accept including calculus, random injuries as I get older and how fish oil can be good for me when fish makes me want to yak. So I’m also going to assume that each of those fairies has a price. What do you suppose the fairies take as bribes? Like in order for the fish fairy to make fish taste less horrible I bet she would want some sort of aquatic reward…like buying several gold fish and then managing to keep them alive for more than three days. Happy writing.
Painting stuff waiting for me to be finished everything else.
On our cruise I tried a few painting classes. I loved them.
I loved the colours. I loved the creative outlet and I loved that unlike other art forms, if you don’t like your painting, it doesn’t mean you’ve failed, it just means you’re not finished yet.
I liked painting so much that I came home and bought supplies to continue my new creative endeavour. And there they sit, waiting. Not for inspiration, but rather for the confidence to get going…
Maybe I won’t be as good when I’m not on the high seas. I’ll do the dishes first. Or the laundry…
Sigh. This feels very familiar. Maybe if I start enough projects I’ll accidentally finish one of them while I’m avoiding the others…
Sad movies should have a disclaimer so you don’t start them on an airplane, then get so involved in the story that you forget where you are and start sobbing in public. On the flight over people stopped trying to hide their disapproval of my blubbering, soggy self. I fully recommend The Fault in Our Stars by the way…when you’re alone, with a box of tissue.
But you know what’s even more distressing than crying in public and having people stare and judge? Crying in public and having no one seem to notice or care. Hello, airline staff?
Sure, when I’m watching a movie I don’t really want the attention, but when we’re landing and my eardrums feel like they are about to burst because apparently I’m not over my cold yet? You know, I’d like someone to ask if I’m ok…like maybe the stewardess…so I can ask if ear drums can burst because you have a cold. Not that knowing would actually help, but I like to be prepared.