If you’re going around in circles and not getting anywhere, maybe you should change your outlook on life? Do you want to be the best or a mindless machine? Where did we lose the free spirit of our youth?
You know the kind I am talking about, the one that didn’t need anyone to make them feel good. There was no need to be the best unless you wanted to. The kind that listened to groups like Motley Crue, AC/DC, Van Halen and had fun.
I remember the first time my mom saw the cover for’Poison’s LOOK WHAT THE CAT DRAGGED IN’… She honestly thought they were women with too much makeup on. I can still remember the shock on her face when I began to read the band members names off. 😂.
I have always resonated with the bands that felt like the concert is a party and they are nothing more than the host of the party. If you go to YouTube, you can see the ones that are really having fun. Tommy Lee doing a barrel roll with the drum set and being strapped in to where he keeps playing is fun to watch. Jon BonJovi flying over the crowd. David Lee Roth playing with Eddie Van Halen on stage, you can see that they are having fun.
So how did we go from ‘Twisted Sister’ to elevator music? When do we lose the ability to have fun?
Sitting at the table, pen in my hand. Trying to get a good starting point. Thoughts racing, which way to make this story go. So many ideas. Still prefer pen and paper, makes the focus better.
Got the idea, don’t think of spelling. Words flow like water. Pages fall to the floor, don’t care. Ideas running, a twist here, left hook there, then a breather.
Look at my clock: 3 hours have gone by. Stretch, cigarette time, food and beverage too. Pick up the sheets of paper. A lot of them.
Paper calling, mind is lost again. Pen in hand. Lost in never never land. Phone rings, go to voicemail. Let me write before I go nuts.
Story done. 5 hours total. Almost 15 pages. Can edit when transferring to the computer. So tired. Forgot to eat dinner again.
Wish I had a person who could type for me. No money to pay for it. Another story to the collection. Wish I could get paid for it.
Must try to sleep. Brain in overtime, husband tells me ‘bedtime’ and he takes the pen from my hand. All I dream of is the story, waiting, calling, begging for more.
Get up early. Room is cleaned up. Paper in stacks. My mind is blank, why can’t I write?