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It's all a fluid movement; I sit down and turn on the computer, open the program, look at my blank screen…think, hmm I need inspiration and guidance, Beethoven.
-Ahh, my fingers are moving, and the process begins to flow. It is starts slowly like a trickle from a leaky faucet, drip – drip – drip. “Moonlight Sonata” in C sharp minor gently pushes through, stroking the keys building idea upon idea, note after note the process builds upon itself, making a statement, building a theme, and lacing one line with the next.
-Beethoven glides his fingers on the keys of his piano building anticipation as my writing follows him up and down through crevices in the music. Now there is a fluid movement as I glide across the keys soaking up the ideas then, wringing them out onto the page. It is slow and steady; surging now, my trickle becomes a stream, and the process flows.
-A good start my brain and his fingers are warming up. Through the space the music has created, Beethoven and I are now laced together, our ideas and consciousness have intertwined together to create a single being bent on creation.
-We sit back and look at our instruments, sweat lightly falling from our foreheads as we smirk at the task “I’ve done this a million times”, we think. We are in concert now we crack our knuckles and begin. We commence and “Waldstein” erupts onto the piano and without hesitation, we are off, not looking back. We ignore anything that might hinder our inspiration, a misspelled word, a lost note in the air, nothing can stop us, we move on. We have become mad men pounding at the keys.
-The music carries me, in and out of ideas, through the blocks and dams of my mind. Nevertheless, it is not enough, I need more, more creative ideas, more feeling and sentiment, I need divine inspiration. As I rummage through my mind looking for what will become the center of my creative muse, the motivation that will carry my paper the rest of the way, I begin to draw from every beautiful and inspiring sight, sound, and thing this world has to offer. I continue writing at a furious pace alongside Beethoven and his galloping piano.
-I cannot even think, my fingers have a mind of their own and they are producing thoughts and movements all unknown to me. They are absurd as they move all about with the grace of a ballerina, jumping and dancing as my eyes marvel at the beauty of it all. A break - a break, breaks are for the undetermined, the weak of heart. I follow my mentors pace and pound with him. The process is gushing through walls; breaking dams that cannot stop us, sliding in and out like a drunk driver thru Friday night traffic. Weaving its tender web that grips my imagination and cannot let me go, as the black widow of creativity comes in to bite me and inject me with thoughts and ideas. I struggle and cry out, but it’s held me captive. Beethoven breaks and the bridge in the song gives ease to my tiring fingers. And the process flows.
-Slowly now we break from the mess and look back at the creation that has come from our hands like 24k diamonds, huge and massive perfectly shaped by something greater then life itself. A smirk of satisfaction and a pat on the back from a stranger, no that’s not why we do it, no money or fame, or glitz and glamour, we do it because we’re mad. Mad to create, mad to invent, mad to live, then I sit back and say “yes, that’s the type of writer I want to be mad”, like Jack Kerouac’s description of the type of people he wanted to be around “…the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones that are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes Awww.” Yes, that’s it mad, a mad writer that’s what I want to be.
-I want to bring my reader with me and show them what burns inside, where I get the fuel for my fire. “Why are you so angry?” “Where does this rage come from?” they ask…Life. I want the reader to feel everything that I feel; I want them to see me as they read my writing, tearing out my hair on lonely Friday nights, laying in bed crying to God to make me a “better” person, I want them to know exactly what it is to be a manic-depressive. Mania: To be excited over false expectations and hopes, to jump to conclusions over minimal promises and words. Depression: Crying, running, shouting, hating, wishing, hoping, all to no end. I want my reader to feel what I feel every single day then they’ll know where the fuel to the fire comes from, to not have your parents at your graduation or see you off to prom, to have your brothers resent everything about you and push you to the side, To know that everyday someone will say “He’s an asshole” and then to laugh and laugh because there is nothing else you can do, That’s the fire, that’s what burns inside I want my reader to know this.
-I want a rise out of readers, Pizzazz humph that’s for children’s book, Harry Potter had pizzazz, I want boom, bang...energy flowing thru your mind. I want to you to put my paper down and say “I knew he was crazy”, I want you to fall in love with me at the end of every line, I want you to laugh, love hate, jump, shout, scream!! I want my words to carry you and cushion you like pearly - blue clouds made of marsh mellow words and tender sweet phrases. To put you on the pedestal that you deserve to be on, and let you know that you’re the greatest gift that God gave me. And the process flows.
-Ahh, my fingers are moving, and the process begins to flow. It is starts slowly like a trickle from a leaky faucet, drip – drip – drip. “Moonlight Sonata” in C sharp minor gently pushes through, stroking the keys building idea upon idea, note after note the process builds upon itself, making a statement, building a theme, and lacing one line with the next.
-Beethoven glides his fingers on the keys of his piano building anticipation as my writing follows him up and down through crevices in the music. Now there is a fluid movement as I glide across the keys soaking up the ideas then, wringing them out onto the page. It is slow and steady; surging now, my trickle becomes a stream, and the process flows.
-A good start my brain and his fingers are warming up. Through the space the music has created, Beethoven and I are now laced together, our ideas and consciousness have intertwined together to create a single being bent on creation.
-We sit back and look at our instruments, sweat lightly falling from our foreheads as we smirk at the task “I’ve done this a million times”, we think. We are in concert now we crack our knuckles and begin. We commence and “Waldstein” erupts onto the piano and without hesitation, we are off, not looking back. We ignore anything that might hinder our inspiration, a misspelled word, a lost note in the air, nothing can stop us, we move on. We have become mad men pounding at the keys.
-The music carries me, in and out of ideas, through the blocks and dams of my mind. Nevertheless, it is not enough, I need more, more creative ideas, more feeling and sentiment, I need divine inspiration. As I rummage through my mind looking for what will become the center of my creative muse, the motivation that will carry my paper the rest of the way, I begin to draw from every beautiful and inspiring sight, sound, and thing this world has to offer. I continue writing at a furious pace alongside Beethoven and his galloping piano.
-I cannot even think, my fingers have a mind of their own and they are producing thoughts and movements all unknown to me. They are absurd as they move all about with the grace of a ballerina, jumping and dancing as my eyes marvel at the beauty of it all. A break - a break, breaks are for the undetermined, the weak of heart. I follow my mentors pace and pound with him. The process is gushing through walls; breaking dams that cannot stop us, sliding in and out like a drunk driver thru Friday night traffic. Weaving its tender web that grips my imagination and cannot let me go, as the black widow of creativity comes in to bite me and inject me with thoughts and ideas. I struggle and cry out, but it’s held me captive. Beethoven breaks and the bridge in the song gives ease to my tiring fingers. And the process flows.
-Slowly now we break from the mess and look back at the creation that has come from our hands like 24k diamonds, huge and massive perfectly shaped by something greater then life itself. A smirk of satisfaction and a pat on the back from a stranger, no that’s not why we do it, no money or fame, or glitz and glamour, we do it because we’re mad. Mad to create, mad to invent, mad to live, then I sit back and say “yes, that’s the type of writer I want to be mad”, like Jack Kerouac’s description of the type of people he wanted to be around “…the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones that are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes Awww.” Yes, that’s it mad, a mad writer that’s what I want to be.
-I want to bring my reader with me and show them what burns inside, where I get the fuel for my fire. “Why are you so angry?” “Where does this rage come from?” they ask…Life. I want the reader to feel everything that I feel; I want them to see me as they read my writing, tearing out my hair on lonely Friday nights, laying in bed crying to God to make me a “better” person, I want them to know exactly what it is to be a manic-depressive. Mania: To be excited over false expectations and hopes, to jump to conclusions over minimal promises and words. Depression: Crying, running, shouting, hating, wishing, hoping, all to no end. I want my reader to feel what I feel every single day then they’ll know where the fuel to the fire comes from, to not have your parents at your graduation or see you off to prom, to have your brothers resent everything about you and push you to the side, To know that everyday someone will say “He’s an asshole” and then to laugh and laugh because there is nothing else you can do, That’s the fire, that’s what burns inside I want my reader to know this.
-I want a rise out of readers, Pizzazz humph that’s for children’s book, Harry Potter had pizzazz, I want boom, bang...energy flowing thru your mind. I want to you to put my paper down and say “I knew he was crazy”, I want you to fall in love with me at the end of every line, I want you to laugh, love hate, jump, shout, scream!! I want my words to carry you and cushion you like pearly - blue clouds made of marsh mellow words and tender sweet phrases. To put you on the pedestal that you deserve to be on, and let you know that you’re the greatest gift that God gave me. And the process flows.
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