For me, insanity is super sanity. The normal is psychotic. Normal means lack of imagination, lack of creativity — Jean Dubuffet
For whatever reason, if someone were to call me insane, I would ask that person what took them so long to figure it out before I would tell them to go fuck themselves. My closest friends know I’m a little crazy. They figured it out. They still love me. Lucky girl, I am.
If I go by what normal means to Dubuffet, I am more than happy to be insane, to have an imagination and a creative streak that demands my attention and refuses to let everything outside of it, to extinguish it. It seems I’ve always had a mild but persistent aversion to normal. Yes, I blend in on the surface. I have a home. I take care of the yard. I enjoy gardening. I pay my taxes.
What is required of me to function properly as a law-abiding citizen, I will do without much complaint. After that, I can’t burn my time away by not indulging my imagination and not feeding the creative part of me that has revealed itself to be voracious on more than one occasion. Why would I want to tamp down this part of me? To be normal? Normal is a soul-sucking death sentence imposed by others who don’t understand or appreciate imagination and creativity. I’ve known people who were/are normal. I’m not friends with any of them.
And this leads to me to the last two weeks where my two main short story male characters have been working hard to get me to play in the sandbox with them more frequently — i.e. everyday. While I’m not quite at the point of tapping out words on the keyboard everyday — let’s just say it’s more often, right now — my boys have been with me every waking minute. And that’s not all. These clowns have managed to invade my dreams for the last three nights. Little bastards really don’t know when to give me a rest.
When I’m not writing, I am still writing. 24/7, it seems.
To be honest, I don’t mind it at all. I really do want to spend a good chunk of my waking hours with the boys. This relationship isn’t a one-sided affair. I’m all in and they know it.
Aside from the decreased workload from my personal projects, the increased activity surrounding my imagination also coincides with the ever-expanding options in music to listen to while I write. My boys are drawn to Prince, The Kills, Ramin Djawadi, and Steve Martin and Edie Brickell. Eclectic? Maybe. Okay, here are some songs that gets them wound up and ready to do damage. Any kind of damage. You can decide if ‘eclectic’ is a proper description:
When Doves Cry
Future Starts Slow
Finch Takes Flight
Til Death Do Us Part
Steve Martin and Edie Brickell:
Hmmm, still don’t know if it’s eclectic. Interesting? Yes. Odd? Perhaps. Who knows. They also respond positively to Kate Bush (Running Up That Hill), David Bowie (Heroes) and Jetta’s cover of I’d Love to Change the World. But I assure you, you don’t want to know what ideas the boys have been throwing at me whenever they hear the Prince tracks. Best left alone.
I’m happy to be spending more time writing. There is so much to enjoy in the process of creating stories you feel compelled to tell. Writing helps me stay sane — or insane, if you want to look at it through Dubuffet’s point of view. Music helps me stay sane, too. Just wait til I get my hands on an acoustic guitar and start learning to play it. The sparks are gonna fly and my two boys just might come up with a giant can of batshit-crazy for me to ponder.
I’m looking forward to the next couple of months of intense writing. Intense meaning I’m planning to write everyday regardless of the amount of time I have to do it. I don’t have to write two to four hours a day, but that would be kinda nice depending on the kind of ideas the boys offer me at that moment. I’m good with one quality hour of writing if that’s all I get that day.
The boys are calling to me now. A little quality time is needed. I’ll see ya later.