Of Bunnies and Birthdays.

So, you’re in the shower, or stuck in traffic, or brushing your teeth, minding your own business when the bunnies attack. Sometimes they’re cute and fluffy. Sometimes they’re dark and slinky. But they are always interesting, different, original, and attention-nabbing, in your opinion of course. And for some reason, they are always so much much MUCH better than the bunnies that attacked last.

What bunnies am I talking about, you ask?

The plot bunnies! Wheeeeeeee… Those shiny new ideas that make you stop suddenly in the shower, jump out, grab the nearest tube of lipstick/eyeliner/vial of blood and start writing things down anywhere you can find a relatively flat surface.

And then you go off and finish your day. You let the idea stew in your mind, you let the writing become permanent in the bathroom or your car dashboard and think about investing in a dry erase white board to have surgically attached to your arm.

After some thinking you decide the idea is good enough, (the idea not the investment) you have time (ha!) and more importantly, you really really REALLY want to do it. So, you sit down and try writing this plot bunny into a story, spewing out random strings of words you link together into paragraph after paragraph of fractured ideas and  unencumbered words and then, you realize that you don’t have it all worked out. There are the details and the finer points, little kinks, loose ends and every idea is coming at you faster than Santa high on Prozac on Christmas Eve and you are heels over head overwhelmed.

So, what do you do?

You sit down with a pencil or a pen or whatever lead/ink churning object you can get your hands on and you start plotting. Not the mass takeover of the world that you’ve had festering in your mind for ages, but the plot, the themes, basic outline, the characters, characteristics, specific events and basically the whole outline of the plot bunny turned story.

You let the details stew in your head, obsessing over it for hours at a time as it grows tendrils and roots and permanently coils itself in the very core of your brain and you wait for the stroke of genius, the grand finale, the final grasp of insight to tie it all together. And after days, probably even weeks of unhealthily obsessing, incessant fact scouring, and a dozen different set of circumstances and plot lines.. It is done and voila! Time to churn out the words, the pages, the chapters; the Actual story.

Except more often than not, I vastly overestimate myself and realize that I Don’t Actually have the time to write it all out.

Because I was so caught up on inspiration mode (Finally you’re back! How I’ve missed you!) that I missed this second thing that hid behind the wings. Reality. And when reality hit, it hit cold and hard, just as promised, like a hidden past that comes back to haunt you, biting hard in the ass.

And like all the other bunny attack moments, I plotted and mulled and probed and prodded my brain, squeezing out every last drop of what I could before realization dawning upon me that I do NOT in fact have the time to write this all out unless the days had suddenly drown several hundred extra hours for me to do as I will.

But the high was good while it lasted I suppose, for all of last week where I was swamped at work over an event, my mind was buzzing with ideas at the same time, forming scenes in my head, other stories arcs to add, different ways to add to the plot lines, the whole she bang. Boy was I like the energizer bunny in those ads that just keep going and going and going. And I loved every second of it.

Because truth is, I haven’t been inspired in a while. Far too long I think. I almost didn’t recognize what this seismic brainwave looked like when it came pelting at me right at me. Almost. Because they assault you from virtually nowhere, lingering stealthily in the shadows, creeping into your peripheral vision, and then slapping you right on the face. But I had fortunately caught on before it hit me smack in my face breaking my nose and/or bruising my eye socket.

The plain simple sad truth is that I haven’t written a single word in ages. For the simple uncomplicated reason that I haven’t been inspired by anything in ages. And when inspiration comes A-knocking, what do I do? Vomit it all out only to stow it away for a ‘till I have time.’ And when I do have the time, like say right now, where I have (not really) no work thrown at me in a pace I can’t even keep up with, I’m uninspired.

In all honesty, I haven’t written in so long that I’m beginning to feel a little worried. What if I can’t do it? What if I suck at it? I’m worried I lost something I had back in high school – talent, integrity, a voice. I don’t know. Something.


This is a joke. This must be a cosmic joke.

Life DOES have a sense of humor after all.

And I know this because I’m her go-to person when she wants a good guffaw.

Wow, do I sound like a depressed homicidal teen again or what. Maybe it’s cause I decided to actually get it over and done with and read New Moon and Eclipse (which I shall return to their rightful owner now that I’m done with them) feeling stupider overnight with the overused phrases, spineless characters, stagnant personalities, excessive clichés and stale commentary drawled out over hundreds of pages.  I got through about 10 pages and wanted to blow my brains out, so I stopped perusing and started skimming through the many many words and pages instead.

And I suppose that could be reason enough I am so entirely brain dead and border lining suicidal but it could the blues of December 3rd catching up to me again.

Yes, ladies and gents, it is That time of year again. And this year, I gave my half baked enthusiasm a half baked shot and like I always do, got a cold hard undesired reception. So I’m scraping the idea completely now. I’ve given up really. No more December 3rd’s for me. The years are now going to pass with me NOT commemorating my sorry ass turning a year older.

No more celebrations. And no more attempts either.

I’m done now, cause the world obviously doesn’t like the idea of me being happy on the one day I’m allowed to be happy so I’m thinking Fuck it, why bother anymore with anyone else anyway, I’ma do what I want and the hell with everyone else, so hah! Take that, bitch!

I think I’ve discovered the secret of life – you just hang around until you get used to it.
Charles M. Schulz


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