They say a writer is best when he writes about something he fears or about something that makes him uncomfortable. So I wonder why I want to write little stories about spacemen and sinking ships.
And when is it too soon to write about ex-girlfriends? There, at least, is something that would make me feel squeamish, if not downright fearful. Whatever the case, it sounds like an advisable subject to pursue. I’m surrounded by inspiration. In fact, I believe there’s still some DNA evidence on the walls. Mine.
Oh, but I am much more of a happy place kind of a guy to be bothered by all of that. My boyhood teddy bear — Ted Ted — stands guard stoically on the dresser beside me, reminding me of daisy chain days and sun spangled dreams. My Rosebud.
Ah, what if…?
Maybe a drink would help. A good strong — i.e., full — tumbler of Makers Mark. Amber colored dreams begin to feel warm like the sun spangled variety in little time. Or so I’m told.
It is a feeling that I am convinced I know, convinced I know intimately, but cannot recall that I want again. So what do I want to do? I want to write about spacemen and sinking ships. I can’t make that fit.
(I’m thinking that the feeling I seek is gone.)
Alas. Just alas.
I’ll settle for the girlfriend and the booze. That’s fine.
- It’s rocket science, jim, but not as we know it (thesun.co.uk)