There are moments,
Surges of adrenaline and a vision of my own uniqueness,
That only other writers ignite.
Energy can neither be created nor destroyed.
I am grateful for this sharing.
Today I believe
It wasn’t that long ago that I pretended to be Annie Oakley. Okay, 40 years is long in a lifetime but it feels like yesterday. I’d ride my pony, Socksey, at a gallop while balancing my pop gun. I played alone but never felt lonely.
As part of the first generation of kids with all day TV , the Wild West filled our airways and Cowboys were our heroes. From the modern perspective, these shows were violent and raw. How’s that modern perspective working for y’all?
To name a few more modern pervasive ailments.
I started looking for videos to attach to this post. My eyes are still filled with tears and my heart with the pride from revisiting my ‘ol pals. Then I found the perfect video. A new movement to instill the virtues that I aspired to from my cowboy heroes. Food for thought people. I’m going to get some old westerns and watch them with my granddaughter.
BTW- I added guns to my title just to make this post “scary” and controversial enough to get you to consider it. 🙂
I think writers are best defined as mentally bipolar. Either you are up or down, there’s no in-between.
I have little time for writing and when a great opportunity for uninterrupted creativity arises, I’m usually at a loss. My cycle of inspiration gets out of sync with my opportunities. Maybe I’m trying too hard? Have I used up all my genius already?
ADD of the brain makes me want new exciting projects once I have dabbled and have felt adequate at a writing task. My gut reminds me that dedication and toil separates those who want to be authors from those who are. I don’t really believe it though.
Instead, I wait. I don’t stop thinking…but inspiration has its own timing and I believe if it is pursued too aggressively, it can dissipate like a cloud observed for scientific study rather than one noticed by a dreamer.
This post, this day…I refuse to give up…What I can do is wait.
The random word generator can be found at greativitygames.net
RULES for this creative writing exercise: Using the words above, weave a short story in one brief sitting.
“..Did you ever read about the frog who dreamed of being a king, and then became one? Well except for the names and a few other changes , my story’s the same one…”
“Oh sing it to me, Neil.“
” I am…I said, to no one there…”
Singing as she ran, Joan noticed the time.
If she was going to take the lead in the marathon, and keep it, she’d have to “kick it up” a notch or three. Running made her free. Not the “run of the mill” free. Flying with angels, free. After a short sprint, her legs operated independently from earthly constraints. She may as well have been on a merry-go-round ‘cuz she felt as though she was standing still as the world spun past.
She recalled what the doctor had said to her after the stroke.
“Better get used to crutches. They’ll be your best friends in time.”
She’d thrown those crutches in the rubbish two years ago today. HA!
“Call the network and give them a scoop Doc…no way!”
Joan was talking out loud to herself again. Talking limited breathing, which limited power and speed, she redoubled her efforts and burst into the lead.
Joan always, well lately, ran while listening to music. She saved “Eye of the Tiger” for the sprint to the finish. So far, it hadn’t let her down. The sun beat upon the course and she thought about chocolate chips cookies fresh from the oven. Where did all these thoughts go when she wasn’t running?
The Rocky Theme escorted her through the tape to victory once more. As she cooled,stretched and walked toward the winner’s circle, the Queen song, “We Are The Champions” was piping into her ears. She paused from her rhythmic cool down routine and shouted aloud, “Damn straight!”
Only a few real friends and imagination.
This movie is my childhood in a nut shell.
(without the tragedy)
I always loved the outdoors and played endless pretend games…more often alone, on my grandparents’ farm and in the forest behind my childhood home. We built tree houses.
My favorite pretending place was the old west and my favorite character to “become” was Annie Oakley.
I did have a pony and spent hours racing and shooting a pop gun at imaginary enemies, my heart pounding with excitement going somewhere where most could not follow.
I still can detach from the moment and live in my mind.
Books are the perfect stairway but solitude in the forest has much the same affect.
No…I never wished to “fit in” but finding a friend,kindred spirit,
validates me and is so rewarding.
Even the “crushes” I would have on people who I felt inspired by, who understood just a bit more, was brought to mind by the relationship with the teacher AND art in that film.
The whole philosophy of this tale of love,loss and imagination is MY story too.
we are fish that play in a sea of light
"Does it look like my hands are busy?"
one post at a time
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