There is a mailbox a block from my office. Three or four times a week I walk over there to mail something. At least once a month, I turn around, walk back to my office and call my cousin the Postmaster to tell her I dropped something in by mistake and could she please intercept it.
Most recently, it was a billing statement that was supposed to be hand delivered to the County Clerk and therefore not only didn’t have postage, it didn’t have an address, either. The time before, it was the invoice I print out for each month’s newspaper columns. It wasn’t even in an envelope.
Most recently, it was a billing statement that was supposed to be hand delivered to the County Clerk and therefore not only didn’t have postage, it didn’t have an address, either. The time before, it was the invoice I print out for each month’s newspaper columns. It wasn’t even in an envelope.
How does this happen? When I leave my office, I have a plan firmly in mind. Step One: Drop my letters in the mailbox. Step Two: Walk the billing statement to the courthouse. Step Three: Stop by the newspaper office and drop off the invoice. Easy peasy.
Except somewhere between my desk and the mailbox, people start talking to me. Telling me their problems. Their deepest darkest secrets. Their hearts’ desires. Sometimes, they even tell me jokes. That’s not so good. Passersby get very nervous when they see me walking down the street laughing.
Except somewhere between my desk and the mailbox, people start talking to me. Telling me their problems. Their deepest darkest secrets. Their hearts’ desires. Sometimes, they even tell me jokes. That’s not so good. Passersby get very nervous when they see me walking down the street laughing.
All by myself.
At least, it looks like I’m by myself. Inside my head, it’s pretty darn crowded. I’ve got characters from three different novels wandering around in there, yammering for attention, along with several horses and a couple of dogs. Even Bill the Goat has to have his say. Everybody thinks they should be the drop dead sexy star. Nobody wants to be the goofy-but-lovable sidekick.
I’m telling you, with all that commotion between our ears, it’s amazing more writers aren’t hit by buses.
I’m telling you, with all that commotion between our ears, it’s amazing more writers aren’t hit by buses.
It’s not just me. Really. My critique partner was filling her car with gas and had a brilliant flash of insight about one of her characters. She was so enthralled, she drove off with her credit card sitting on the roof. Hey, at least she remembered to take the nozzle out of the tank.
She thinks.
She thinks.
I know we're not the only two loons on the pond. 'Fess up, dear readers. What have you done while under the influence of 'writer's brain'?
