Once upon a time there was an essay. It was an essay of moderate proportions, just simmering around in the brain pan. It begged to be written. Apparently, it did not mind if it was to be written poorly, it just needed to be written. So written it was. Now it sits. And sits. And sits.
I am frustrated with the editing process at this point and it is consuming far too much of my creative chutzpah. Do I go in with a jigsaw and carve around the parts I like, then try to piece them back together to paint a better picture? Or should I just go in with a jackhammer and use the leftover chunks of concrete to make an interesting border for a flower bed? The beauty of computers is that I can do both and not really lose anything in the process. But, process it is, and as much a part of the creative process as writing it all down to begin with. Process. I should say that a few more times. Process. Excuse me while I process for a bit.
Part of a cat's fight or flight instinct includes grooming itself to restore equilibrium and assess the damages after the incident is over. Sometimes, though, with a huge surge of adrenalin, these reactions can get scrambled and the cat will just get overwhelmed and sit and groom itself first. This happens to humans, too. That's why we find ourselves laughing at funerals, crying during sex, or buying a ten pound ham after meeting with a real estate agent.
It occurred to me the other day that there is an alarmingly large population that has spent a number of formative hours crammed into the back seat of a Ford Escort.
My daughter told me the other day that the average person swallows about six spiders a year while they are sleeping. This doesn't freak me out. What freaks me out is chicken nuggets.
I cannot stop watching Morgan Freeman in old Electric Company skits.
There comes a time in every girl's life when she realizes she is a tedious bore.
I've had to wear my grownup pants far too often this week. My grownup pants are going to get holes in them just like all my other pants if I'm not careful.
I am short circuiting here. It's like that scene in The Empire Strikes Back where C3P0 gets abducted by Lando and his evil C3P0 and they dismantle him and his eyeball is all hanging out and he's spouting nonsense. I need a Chewbacca to come along and fix me with tools from his mysterious pouch and then yell at me in that pre-verbal yowling. Or I could just edit my essay. Hey! Maybe I could get Chewbacca to edit it and then I could market my pre-verbal yowling to Wookie literary journals.
Does someone want to be my Wookie?
I am frustrated with the editing process at this point and it is consuming far too much of my creative chutzpah. Do I go in with a jigsaw and carve around the parts I like, then try to piece them back together to paint a better picture? Or should I just go in with a jackhammer and use the leftover chunks of concrete to make an interesting border for a flower bed? The beauty of computers is that I can do both and not really lose anything in the process. But, process it is, and as much a part of the creative process as writing it all down to begin with. Process. I should say that a few more times. Process. Excuse me while I process for a bit.
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| I hate ham. Photo credit: gracey from morguefile.com |
Part of a cat's fight or flight instinct includes grooming itself to restore equilibrium and assess the damages after the incident is over. Sometimes, though, with a huge surge of adrenalin, these reactions can get scrambled and the cat will just get overwhelmed and sit and groom itself first. This happens to humans, too. That's why we find ourselves laughing at funerals, crying during sex, or buying a ten pound ham after meeting with a real estate agent.
It occurred to me the other day that there is an alarmingly large population that has spent a number of formative hours crammed into the back seat of a Ford Escort.
My daughter told me the other day that the average person swallows about six spiders a year while they are sleeping. This doesn't freak me out. What freaks me out is chicken nuggets.
I cannot stop watching Morgan Freeman in old Electric Company skits.
There comes a time in every girl's life when she realizes she is a tedious bore.
I've had to wear my grownup pants far too often this week. My grownup pants are going to get holes in them just like all my other pants if I'm not careful.
I am short circuiting here. It's like that scene in The Empire Strikes Back where C3P0 gets abducted by Lando and his evil C3P0 and they dismantle him and his eyeball is all hanging out and he's spouting nonsense. I need a Chewbacca to come along and fix me with tools from his mysterious pouch and then yell at me in that pre-verbal yowling. Or I could just edit my essay. Hey! Maybe I could get Chewbacca to edit it and then I could market my pre-verbal yowling to Wookie literary journals.
Does someone want to be my Wookie?
