Storming Brains
I will metaphorically as best I can present you with a problem I'm having, which may or may not be a problem, and you may tell me then what kind of socks I'm wearing.
How you come to your conclusions as well as how accurate they prove to be will help me find a missing spark within myself that is elementary to pushing past this problem, be it a problem or not.
I've got you interested now, haven't I?
Here is my thought for food.
I get a lot of ideas and still load my pants with delightful little cartwheels whenever I apply one of these ideas to paper, feeling entirely capable of turning these ideas into some kind of marvelous plot and thence perhaps a full story which I can mail off to Jesus and have him personally approved to be recommended in any Bible-sequels he may have planning, and thence forth and resultfully making me the next greatest author to Stephen (Haw/)King.
Unfortunately, however, and but... I seem to be suffering from what I would call "explosive bleeding funnel syndrome."
This is where I start with an idea, most excitedly, and the horizons seem widely divided to my every creative whim and the breeze of my writing what comes to me will pass so quickly I hardly have time to write anything at all. So I dive with blazing will into this spiraling dreamscape of creative rocking and rolling... and eventually, I stop short of a finished novel.
"Whew" I think, "now THAT was a start."
Then, I ho and hum, going back over it a few times to adjust and to re-word and pretty up over all... and after that I don't want to look at it for a few days to clear my head.. at which time I either temporarily lose the interest to write for a week as though having burnt out all of my fuel and vigor on this one initial massive effort of magnitude and mass, OR, I get another brilliantly destined idea and go ape-shit-to-the-fan on that and my prior work of stroking genuis flutters into the distance as our cycle continues with this next piece in the works.
In short, I cannot finish anything, nor even get to a mid-way point.
Now, that's not to say I haven't finished things, but once I DO finish them, I find an insane amount of inconsistency being the ultimate storyline skeptic that, in fleshing out said details, I find myself losing more and more of the spark of the story, not to mention that the work of revision after revision actually makes me cut myself across the face with impatient lathering of the genitals and I don't want to read it anymore altogether.
Than, maybe four, six months later, I dial it back up, start getting back into it, but than realize all of the things I've written since, perhaps even try to blend in some old things with the new thing, and overwhelm myself in stories half written and collapse into a kiddie pool of virgin hair and ice cream until I wake up hours later with no recollection of ever being born and need to wear make-up and watch daytime television while I touch myself with ping pong paddles, my thoughts composed entirely of mono-syllabic caveman like grunts and intense hatred for Quentin Tarantino and Starbucks, the former of which going against my very nature as a human being.
And slowly, like the melted snow trickling in eensy drops to the gutter where they pour on to the rock pile at the sides of my house, glistening in the warm morning sun and slowly collecting in an overwhelming tidal wave like puddle that sweeps across half the globe and kills everyone without an arc or scuba gear... I get back into this torrent of thrashful brain-screaming collapse over mounds and mounds of papers, notes, and monologues... and so again begins our starry tale.
I have several theories on why this is, but for a later date.
I'm going to go write.
Captain Irony at your service...
you stole my towel.
How you come to your conclusions as well as how accurate they prove to be will help me find a missing spark within myself that is elementary to pushing past this problem, be it a problem or not.
I've got you interested now, haven't I?
Here is my thought for food.
I get a lot of ideas and still load my pants with delightful little cartwheels whenever I apply one of these ideas to paper, feeling entirely capable of turning these ideas into some kind of marvelous plot and thence perhaps a full story which I can mail off to Jesus and have him personally approved to be recommended in any Bible-sequels he may have planning, and thence forth and resultfully making me the next greatest author to Stephen (Haw/)King.
Unfortunately, however, and but... I seem to be suffering from what I would call "explosive bleeding funnel syndrome."
This is where I start with an idea, most excitedly, and the horizons seem widely divided to my every creative whim and the breeze of my writing what comes to me will pass so quickly I hardly have time to write anything at all. So I dive with blazing will into this spiraling dreamscape of creative rocking and rolling... and eventually, I stop short of a finished novel.
"Whew" I think, "now THAT was a start."
Then, I ho and hum, going back over it a few times to adjust and to re-word and pretty up over all... and after that I don't want to look at it for a few days to clear my head.. at which time I either temporarily lose the interest to write for a week as though having burnt out all of my fuel and vigor on this one initial massive effort of magnitude and mass, OR, I get another brilliantly destined idea and go ape-shit-to-the-fan on that and my prior work of stroking genuis flutters into the distance as our cycle continues with this next piece in the works.
In short, I cannot finish anything, nor even get to a mid-way point.
Now, that's not to say I haven't finished things, but once I DO finish them, I find an insane amount of inconsistency being the ultimate storyline skeptic that, in fleshing out said details, I find myself losing more and more of the spark of the story, not to mention that the work of revision after revision actually makes me cut myself across the face with impatient lathering of the genitals and I don't want to read it anymore altogether.
Than, maybe four, six months later, I dial it back up, start getting back into it, but than realize all of the things I've written since, perhaps even try to blend in some old things with the new thing, and overwhelm myself in stories half written and collapse into a kiddie pool of virgin hair and ice cream until I wake up hours later with no recollection of ever being born and need to wear make-up and watch daytime television while I touch myself with ping pong paddles, my thoughts composed entirely of mono-syllabic caveman like grunts and intense hatred for Quentin Tarantino and Starbucks, the former of which going against my very nature as a human being.
And slowly, like the melted snow trickling in eensy drops to the gutter where they pour on to the rock pile at the sides of my house, glistening in the warm morning sun and slowly collecting in an overwhelming tidal wave like puddle that sweeps across half the globe and kills everyone without an arc or scuba gear... I get back into this torrent of thrashful brain-screaming collapse over mounds and mounds of papers, notes, and monologues... and so again begins our starry tale.
I have several theories on why this is, but for a later date.
I'm going to go write.
Captain Irony at your service...
you stole my towel.