I was thinking in sunday school this week, probably not a good idea, but one has to at least tread water with thoughts or we drown. I write, fiction typically and sometimes non. It occurred to me that characters, things and passions i write about all share a commonality—they’re all things i don’t have. My latest work at 1week.net, rails about a brother, duck hunting and a pair of Bombardier Jets—none of which i have or have experienced. There are two ladies in the book, both of whom dumped me. And a third gal, something of a dual protagonist, who is likewise absent fingerprints and toes for that matter.
What gives? Why do i write about things that are in my window, but not in my closet?
I guess i should have flipped my sunday school teacher a quarter for a tour on his couch. That’s his daytime gig—therapist.
Oh brother John if you could just look out of the rim of those sage rimmed glasses and ask the second question that would make all this go away. Something like the second shoe dropping, this would be the second question that makes sense of the first.
Me thinks not. Rather, i shall hang on to these demons. At least they are not strangers, and we all know how the bible would caution about leaping into bed with strangers.
So, i am now walking the demons, a walk west, like i will soon have to rise and walk the dog who beckons from his slumber.
They’ll want fed too, and treats are a must. Tis a full time job caring for these absentee treasures of heart and mind.
But i own them, or so the story goes. Wheather they slumber on my pillow wishing so desperately they could speak, or i wake and kick them to the street—the choice remains mine and mine alone.
It is the one thing i do own—my choice!