We’re all cursed
And by ‘we,’ I mean writers, those of us that feel the need to type shit out when we think of it: creatively, figuratively, analogically, whatever the case may be.
We’re like clairvoyants. (Ok, maybe I thesaurus’d ‘psychic’ for that one…I knew the word I wanted and couldn’t think of it, haha.) We don’t really have a choice. Our brains are just fashioned that way.
I swear to God we see the world differently. The other day I was walking down the street in Boston, and when the light turned green, a whole flock of pigeons flew up in the air from the median strip. Seemingly in unison, they flew to the right and then to the left, and glided back to where they were previously perched. To me, they looked like leaves being carried by the wind in the fall. It’s September, the air is cold. It made me want to write a poem. So I did.
Mind you: I didn’t ask myself, “what does this remind me of?” or anything, it just happened.
What a weirdo.
But it happens all the time. I see people on the street and I create their story in my head. I’ll gauge your pretentiousness by the length and authority of your walking stride. If you have pillow head and your hair is a straight up birds nest, I’ll think about what’s troubling and why you ground the F out of the pillow with your head last night. Ultimately I’ll decide why you didn’t sleep well, nevermind why you didn’t have time to shower off your mess status this morning. And then I’ll want to write about you.
Five seconds ago I saw a girl walking around sporting yoga pants and the glaring “PINK” decal directly on her posterior. In bright silver rhinestones mind you…I guess subtle isn’t the look she’s going for…In any case, oh MAN do I have fun with people like her. My mind involuntarily starts grappling:
- How old is she?
- Texting the boyfriend on that Blackberry?
- Her parents are probably divorced…I’m feeling that her mother has a boyfriend.
- Probably a nursing major
- Probably listens to Jack Johnson
- Does her own highlights
- Field hockey star in school
- Need an outlier characteristic to make it interesting…she’s probably fluent in Russian! Born in Moscow, adopted by U.S. parents.
See? Weirdo. Told you. I don’t even care if I’m right. I’m merely looking for a character.
Sometimes I wish I could shut it off, sometimes I wish it came to me more often (when I want it). Nevertheless, it seems to be ubiquitous in my brain: nuanced from day to day, but inevitable that at some point during the day, I’ll start writing in my head.
Writers…do you feel me?