DR. FRANKENSTEIN! of sorts...

(Inspired by a conversation I had with my brother, Kyle...)


It gets worse. When you start to put it down on paper, it grows into something far more frightening. More. It grows into something much like a heart beat, or like a living, breathing lung. “Choosing the Names” would sound appropriate if it wasn’t the other way around. Christening characters isn’t so much a simple matter of choosing a name out of a name book, but rather something of the opposite. I could have a list of ten names, all of which I love, but my character wants nothing to do with them. I have sometimes “chosen” a name that I would never in a million years name my own child, but for some reason fits perfectly with the character I’ve created. I seem to have an extremely limited amount of control on the matter. It’s almost… supernatural. “The wand chooses the wizard,” and that sort of thing. And once they’re christened? There’s no turning back. They’ve been born, and you’re stuck with them. Sometimes it’s a good thing, but sometimes they end up failing you and you wish you never gave birth to them at all. Cliché metaphor, but there’s no better way to explain it. Or? Maybe there is.

Mary Shelley knew a thing or two about it. Dr. Frankenstein didn’t exactly give birth to his creation, but he definitely rose it into being and left it to the world to decide if it was worthy of existing or not. Sometimes, writing a story feels not too far different than that. ‘Not too far different than trying to play God. Or? Learning to accept the fact that we may, just might, be made in His image after all. We’re creators too, right? As a writer I create characters in my own image all the time. Every vigilante, hero, villain, protagonist, antagonist, sibling, goddess, neighbor, talking fox and healing goblin, have all been created with different pieces of my soul. The second I put quotation marks around my first piece of dialog I come to terms with the fact that I’ve now created a separate being, and there’s now a set of rules to follow in how to go about making them act, speak, and perform correctly. I can’t make this character act anyway I want it too, say whatever I want it to, or behave any way I want it to. No. They have a back-story now, a family that has made them a certain way, a best friend that fills in a void, a neighborhood or environment that has led them down a specific way of responding to life. If I don’t follow the rules, I ruin my creation.

It’s a strange experience that, truth be told, only other story tellers, artists, and writers of the sort will probably understand. Others might just suggest a good psychiatrist… And there are times, I’ll admit, that I feel the urge to comply with the suggestion. I often feel the need to shrink my picture shows down closer to reality, and I often wonder what would happen if I was put on a pill to make them all go away. My daydreaming sometimes rules and gets in the way of my life. All these living, breathing characters walking around in my skull: it’s a little distracting.

Sometimes, when people talk to me they often say a word or a phrase that triggers something in my brain to take that word or phrase and run with it. My brain turns that word into something more and before you know it, as my friend is talking to me, my physical eyesight has disappeared, my consciousness is on autopilot, and I’m now in my head working out a storyline, or recapping a childhood memory, or standing on stage in a comedy club totally bringing down the house.
This happens a lot.
During movies, during television, during school (when I used to suffer through it), during conversations, during projects, during writing, during going to the bathroom, during showering, during doing laundry, during reading, during cleaning…

The word “during” is now sounding quite strange and funny to me (especially the “during doing laundry” part), and I’m tempted to switch gears and talk about the sound and rhythm of words and why and how they make us feel certain emotions. At the same time I want to talk about how funny it is to say the same word over and over and over again, and then actually say that word over and over again in hopes of getting a reaction from the audience (“doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody…”), and then tap on the microphone and say, “Hey? Is this thing on?”

But that would clarify my need to be on a pill.
Focus.
Back to Frankenstein.

What was I talking about before I diagnosed myself with ADD?

Creation. Stories. Rules. Living, breathing lungs and heart beats. “We think you need to see a psychiatrist.”

Right.

I’m too bored now to finish what I was saying. I began this with a point, I did. Uuh… Writers playing God. Or, writers accepting that human beings are indeed created in His image. Names. Christening. Bringing it all to life. Rules popping into existence. Rules that must be followed lest there be consequences. Intuitively knowing what those rules are and following them, no matter how bad of a speller you are or how often your word usage is mixed up and backwards (possible dyslexia diagnoses coming up here; I’m talkin about myself in third person in case you didn’t realize…), or how long your freaking run-on sentences run on. I truly believe that storytelling has more to do with instinct, a sixth sense and over-awareness of your existence, and the ability to organize the chaotic picture shows that run amuck through your skull all day long than it does with anything else. Imagination is both a blessing and a curse. A tool, and a disease. Both a distraction from reality, and? Let’s face it: a way to get filthy rich. Good grief, what would happen if they put me on a pill? I’m hanging onto the chaos in hopes it someday makes me rich. How’s that for coming full circle? (Note sarcasm). Writing. Sometimes the chaos reigns. This entry was terrible, but I’m posting it anyway because I’m bored, and? There’s a little part of me that wonders (and is hoping with a pathetic need for self approval) if I’ll like it when I read it again later… Fat chance, though. If I hate it now, I will hate it later. Hmm. Maybe next entry will be about a writer’s natural talent for self loathing….

*I wrote this in December...am now deciding to post it....