thoughts

Maybe you think you’re not up to much, just working on your tiny things.

Maybe you think you’re in need of a massive undertaking, a large-scale project to manage.

But consider this.  While some build sky scrapers and even plan entire cities, there are those of us who spend our time on smaller ventures.

Some of us are gardeners, tending daily to small patches of beauty to enjoy and share with others. 

Some go big and wide.  Some go small and deep.

Novelists, for instance, take us on long journeys through epic tales of heroes and heroines slaying dragons and fighting demons, and short story writers lead us on smaller excursions, focusing sharply on singular events or some quirky aspect of human interaction.  But poets take our hands and place them on our own chests to feel the beating of a single human heart.

Some paint giant murals on vast walls.  Some paint scenes on canvas.  Still others dip their brushes and work within the realm of the miniature, painting on tea cups and tiles and thimbles.

Some people compose symphonies, while some write simple tunes.

Some people carve large monuments, and some make figurines.

It’s okay to do the latter.

It’s okay to say, “I am the purveyor of small things.”

The only thing life asks of you is to give them all you have.

Tagged as: thoughts

{ 3 comments }

Bad moods are liars.  You need to know that.  They have no interest in the truth.  None.  Zero.  Nada.

They’re also inconsiderate.  They show up at the most inconvenient times, intent on telling you their stories. And, oh, how they love to tell their stories, over and over and over. 

“Hey,” they’ll say, “Remember that time you tried and failed?  Wasn’t that a kick in the pants?  Whew.  Wouldn’t want to go through that again.  Let’s see.  If I remember right, it went something like this . . .”

And then they’ll go about rehashing the event, once again, adding the most dreadful embellishments they can think of.  Don’t buy it.  It’s a ruse.  They just want to tell their stories, and even that isn’t enough.  They want you to tell their stories too – to anyone who will listen.

“Go on.” they’ll whisper in your ear, “Tell them about the time that turkey did you dirty.  Tell them about that crazy woman at work.  Tell them about how your dreams are going nowhere and you’re just about ready to chuck it all.  Go on, now.  Tell em.”

Retelling a “small tale” woven by a bad mood is the same as spreading a bad rumor, and rumors are tumors. A tumor, according to Visual Thesaurus, is an “abnormal new mass of tissue that serves no purpose.”  That’s precisely what a bad mood’s story is, a useless mass of thought tissue that presses and squeezes and chokes the useful thoughts you could be having.

Bad moods love to talk about your work, but only when you’re struggling.  They’re rude and obnoxious, standing behind you, looking over your shoulder, dishing out worthless comments like, “Man, this is hard, huh.  Looks like a LOT of work.”

Tell them that it is work, and that you’d like it very much if they’d leave you to it. 

“But wouldn’t you rather be playing?” they might ask.

Tell them that what you’re doing is playing.  Tell them that it’s both work and play; it just looks and feels more like one or the other depending on the task at hand, the time of day, your level of energy, and dozens of other factors. 

And then, tell them to leave you alone.

Ignore them.  Stop talking to them.  They will eventually go away.

Sometimes they go away after a good night’s rest, or a long walk, or a glass of water, or a sandwich. 

Sometimes they stick around for a few days, but get on with your life and your dreams, and, at some point, they’ll move on. 

Don’t be surprised when they come back to visit.  They never leave for good.  They’re stubborn little pests, but you don’t have to set a table for them.  Build a moat around your dreams and make them swim it.   Build a wall of good friends, good experiences, and good work and make the little suckers climb it.  Put an extra sturdy lock on the door to your soul and make them pick it. 

And when they finally make it through, give them a knowing glance, acknowledge their hard work, and then go on about your business.  Sooner or later, they’ll get bored and leave.

Tagged as: thoughts

{ 2 comments }

When I was a kid, I went to see a play at the local university, and was mesmerized.

It was a comedy, set in the west, and I was smitten by how the play leapt off the stage – literally. The characters moved up and down the aisles at times, and, at one point, a gunslinger stood just three feet away from me as he challenged someone to a duel.

This had never happened in the movies or on television. John Wayne never stepped out into the aisle to punch a villain, Jerry Lewis never did a pratfall into my living room.

Immediately, I went home and started writing my own comedic western.  With my school’s annual Christmas program approaching, I decided to give it a yuletide theme and wrote parts for everyone in my class.  I submitted it for approval, and we performed Christmas at Cowhide Creek before a crowd of teachers, parents, and other students.  It was a hit. Someone’s mother made a cassette recording and I remember listening to it, tingling with every burst of laughter from the audience. 

Now, notice something.  I didn’t take a class in writing for the theater, or read a book on becoming a playwright, or even read five hundred plays before attempting to write my own.  I saw a play, fell in love with it, thought I’d like to try writing one, and did.  And then I wrote another, and then another, and pretty soon I was the school’s supplier of sketches and plays for almost every school assembly and parent-teacher program.  Then I grew up.

I grew up and began to think there was a right way and a wrong way to do almost everything, and that someone out there knew precisely how to do it. Then I stopped writing.

I stopped writing, because I was afraid I would do it wrong.  When I was a kid, this had never occurred to me.

It didn’t occur to me when I wrote my first book, Carl the Monkey, complete with illustrations composed with a box of 24 Crayola crayons. 

It didn’t occur to me when I pretended to be a DJ, spinning my sister’s 45′s and interlacing them with patter and commercials for imagined products like Stink Away and Magic Fish Bait.

It didn’t occur to me when I created radio plays complete with sound effects like the breaking glass of a bar room brawl or the zinging zaps of a space age laser fight.

It didn’t occur to me when I wrote limericks, haikus, or sonnets. 

It didn’t occur to me when I was making up my own mythologies, tall tales, and fables. 

And it didn’t occur to me, last night, when I read some poems by Charles Bukowski and decided to write my own.

Last night, I was creating like a kid, writing poems simply because it was fun.  Were they good poems?  Now is not the time to ask. 

This morning, I was creating like a kid, playing around in my notebook when I stumbled my way into the beginnings of a short story.  Is it a good story?  Now is not the time to ask.

Now is the time to give it a whirl, to turn it over and over in my mind and see what there is to see, and have a little fun with it.  I can seek advice later.  I can make it better later.

We all need, I believe, a time and space in which to create unencumbered.  We all need a time when we can put away the expert opinions and the how-to’s and the things to avoid, and just play, experiment, and try our hands at something we’ve long thought about, just like we did when we were kids.

Tagged as: thoughts

{ 5 comments }