The Questions I Ask Myself...

This is what I think about when I'm sitting at my computer, a solitary being in search of company yet finding none. I don't have a story idea in my head, my Facebook home page has zero friends chatting, my email Inbox is so bare it reminds me of an old West ghost town just before the gun fight. Even the occasional spam I receive from some obscure catalogue company I purchased something from eons ago wants nothing to do with me.

In other words, I've got zilch, nada, rien, nichts...

I ask myself the great, profound WHY on such occasions. (These are also some of the questions I ask myself when I am sleep deprived or if Winter has gone on too long and the stir-crazies have set in.)

1. Why does "seven minute" icing take so much longer than seven minutes to make?

2. Why do I talk to the television or my dog or the refrigerator when I know they're not really listening?

3. Why do I take offense at blonde jokes when I'm not even naturally a blonde?

4. Why does my crummy vacuum NOT suck?

5. Why doesn't anyone else notice when I'm having a good hair day?

6. Why do I love to watch the Food Network when I hate to cook?

7. Why does my dog love my husband? (P.S. He never wanted her in the first place.)

8. Whatever happened to Mrs. Clean? Or for that matter, the Burger Queen?

9. Why do I assume my children will take a hint?

10. If you leave your heart in San Francisco, does it really matter where the rest of you goes?

11. Why do I check the fat grams in Krispy Kremes?

12. If we all wore sunglasses, would we still see eye to eye?

13. Does the Postmaster General oppose the war?

14. Why don't they have Queen size candy bars?

15. Why do they say black swimsuits are slimming when I weigh the exact same amount after putting one on?

16. Why do middle-aged people not look so old to me now?

17. Why doesn't Smiths have a Coin Star for Legos or Hot Wheels? (I'd be rich!)

18. Who invented the word Google?

19. Why do medication disclaimers sound worse than the original disease?

20. Why do my children always think that an ironic twist is a wedgie from a younger sibling?

There they are...those embarrassing, unanswerable questions I sometimes think about. If they serve no other purpose, they at least remind me to smile and remember that life isn't always serious and duty-filled. It is often absurd and laughable. That's a good thing to remember when we live in the times we do.

As they say, "Keep that sense of humor!"

Maybe an empty-headed day at the computer once in a while is beneficial, if it helps me keep my perspective. And gives me a free moment to listen to my six-year-old playing with his action figures in the next room.

Every grey cloud has a silver lining, right?

Or maybe two.

Inspiration

Sometimes I look in the mirror and see a stranger. Oh, I remember the familiar wrinkles at the corners of my eyes, the funny nose, and the willful wiry hair. It's the brain behind the face that throws me. Here, in the sunrise of my middle years, I'm wondering exactly who and what I am.

Two years ago, I saw my friend at a dance recital. She had a spiral notebook on her lap and while the rest of us were waiting for the performance to begin, she was in the shimmery-blue-watered world of the Caribbean, teetering on the edge of a cutlass with a pirate's future hanging in the balance. As my friend told me about her story, I had an epiphany. I don't know why the idea of being a writer seized my imagination as it did, but after it took root, I was a goner. Once I began having regular assignations with my desktop, these characters flowed out of me through the keyboard, like old acquaintances. I had carried these people around inside my head for all these years, refining them by garnering my own experiences, collecting knowledge here and there along the way.

What else is in there, hiding in my cranium? "Who are you really?" I ask my reflection. I don't know until I sit down at my desk and let myself out. My muse can be fickle, often waiting to show up until I've proved myself by suffering through lines and lines of less-than-inspired drivel. I don't always like the muse, but I am addicted to her inspiration. The unexpected flash of creativity flowing to the page from a source I can't identify is a rush unlike any other.

Okay, maybe I am exaggerating... Being loved and having someone to love is better. Hearing a little child whisper they think you're beautiful when you know you're probably not definitely outshines the muse. Surviving an out-of-the blue, nearly-fatal illness also has a way of kicking the damn muse to the curb.

But apart from the things we cherish most, there is a hunger we all have to be something more than we are. Writing fulfills that for me. It makes use of past pain, sadness, and grief. It channels dreams and happiness, winnowing all the ordinary magic from a lifetime. When I write, I draw on a metaphorical well that never needs replenishing because I am experiencing and living every moment and each beat of time adds to what I already have accumulated in that cistern of memory.

My husband and I took a vacation to New York City last summer. Just the two of us. We toured museums, walked in Central Park, watched a Yankee's game in the real Yankee Stadium, and fell in love with Harlem and the Lower East Side. I felt closer to my husband after sharing such a wonderful experience, and I look forward to our next adventure. We both felt different when we returned home, like we had lived more fully in that short time away.

Being an author is like our trip to the Big Apple. New discoveries in each thought. Another facet uncovered as I move forward with a storyline. I've come a long way in two years.

No one knows that better than I.