Ideas and the Scattered Brain

"Brutus! Give me back the baby's diaper! That's disgusting!" I said sternly to my 7 year-old Boxer.

Brutus, as usual, ignored my command and pranced off into the living room, carrying the soiled, soggy diaper like a prized toy.

"Brutus! Damn it, dog, if you don't give me back that diaper, I'm selling you to the glue factory! I mean it this time."

"Honey," my husband, Wally, said, from his elected position on the couch (front and center of the hi-def TV), "they don't take dogs at the glue factory. It's horses." He ripped his eyes away from drag racing long enough to glance at me. "Besides, I don't think they do that anymore."

"Whatever," I muttered, my mind going off onto one of its "tangents," while I simultaneously chased the 60 lb. fawn colored dog (who was definitely going to glue factory--no question) around the house.

As I stalked the dog, I imagined a puppy mill where the owners, looking to create the next "it" breed of dog, accidentally mix monkey DNA with a Boxer puppy and end up with a "Moxer" or a "Bonkey." They'll call him "X," short for X29752 and he'll possess the ability bark and chase birds while swinging from limb to limb (scratching its butt, of course). Hmmm, is there a story there?

"To the victor go the spoils!" I shouted, snagging the diaper from Brutus' jowls. After disposing of said disgusting diaper, I looked at Wally, who (big surprise) was still parked on the couch.

"Are you ready? We've got to drop the kids off at my mom's in twenty minutes."

Wally held out a hand, "Just five more minutes, honey. I want to see (insert name of random drag racer here) finish this round."

I rolled my eyes. The Just Five More Minutes Honey clause is one I'm familiar with. After all, I created it in my house.

TEN minutes later...."

"Why don't you calm down?" Wally asked, loading our son into his car seat. "You're so high-strung all the time."

Oh, I'll give you high-strung.

"The reason I'm so tense, is because we're supposed to be at Mom's in fifteen minutes and it's a thirty minute drive."

Wally smirked as he slid in the driver's seat. "Did you take your crazy pills today?"

I socked him lightly in the arm. "Not funny the first time you said it. Not funny the gajillion other times."

Backing out of the driveway, he grinned. "Hey, now when I ask you if you're on drugs, you can say yes and mean it." He laughed at his ingenuity.

Folding my arms across my chest, I leaned back into the seat and thought of a GREAT idea for a story. A woman with a newly diagnosed mood disorder murders her husband and buries his remains on the 10 acre property she shares with him (this may come back to bite me in the butt should I ever decide to "method act" out this idea).

As we drove along the highway, I gazed out along the gently rolling hills and large expanses of farmland. Tuning out NASCAR on AM 1360, I imagined a farm that had been in a certain family for decades that was being threatened by torrential rains and a sudden invasion of ants.

As I looked at the car driving alongside us, I wondered, "Where are they going? What are they doing?" In my mind, they were a couple on an awkward blind date. The woman has just gotten out of a nasty marriage, and after a year of solitude, has decided to dip her foot in the dating pool again. The man has trust issues of his own and only went on the date because his older sister guilted him into it. Little do they know, this first date was going to take them into a whirlwind love affair filled with tension, inner conflict, great sex, emotional black moments for each of them, and finally, a Happily Ever After.

"Honey? We're here."

I looked out at my parents' familiar blue ranch and blinked. Wow, that'd gone quick, I thought.

My mind, of course, was still back on that lonely stretch of highway, with the couple I'd named Harry and Grace.

My Saving Grace

I received some upsetting news yesterday. My brother is being sent to prison. This is no ordinary trip to county for a few months. No, this is full-on, "Hi, my name’s Bubba," don’t-drop-the-soap State Prison. The hows and whys are immaterial at this point. Let’s just say it’s been a long time coming. In fact, I’m surprised that at the ripe ol’ age of twenty-five, he hasn’t been sent down river sooner. Trust me on this.The news in and of itself was devastating, but not at all surprising. After all, we had been awaiting this day since last July, when he was caught evading the police in a stolen car during rush hour traffic. But, when my mom told me over the phone yesterday, it hit me hard nonetheless.This is my baby brother.This is the little baby my mother held in her arms in the hospital, while I peered over the bed and asked if I could "pet" him. This is the child I fiercely protected against the slaps and punches of those who were sworn to protect us. This is the child who I cared for like my own when there were none to care for us.Where was I? And how did this happen?Yes, I was a child, too. But, it rips at me in a way that is so intrinsically primal that I want to rip my hair out and scream at the heavens and demand WHY!After the storm of tears had waned, I was overcome with the crippling urge to write. Needed to write. Had to write. Where in the damn hell is my laptop?Afterward, I felt better. Which brought to mind the countless other times in my life, particularly those black, bleak moments of my childhood when my only ally was a pen and a piece of paper, a book that I could escape into, if only for a few precious moments.Writing is my saving grace, I realized. It has been the one true thing that has stuck with me through thick and thin. It got me through the tears, the pain, the loneliness, the drug habits, the depression, the wonder and terrifying brilliance of becoming a mother. It’s what’s kept me sane. It’s what’s kept me strong. A strong beam of light in an endless sea of chaos that is life. My life.

So, I realize that this is probably a little dark, a little deep. But, I’m feeling a little dark and a little deep lately.

Sacred Space: Where I Write

So, we're building a house.And the thought occurs that I am going to have a brand new writing space. I'm not what you might call a "versatile" girl when it comes to where I write. Unfortunately. When I write in spaces other than my home desk/office, I have a hard time getting the words to flow. I have a laptop and even when I take it to my dining room table, it's difficult to "get in the zone."I'm sure it's purely psychological, but there it is.In all of my years of performing the written arts, I've had a special space for writing. When I first began, at the tender age of eleven, I sat in my bedroom at an old wooden desk and wrote painstakingly by hand. With the advent of computers, it moved into the spare bedroom. Through adulthood and many apartments, I have always designated one area as my "sacred writing space."We've been in this house for less than two years. I don't have an "office." I have desk in the middle of the playroom (obviously, my priorities have changed in recent years). But, it's my space. I have some crystals set out on my desk: aventurine for creativity, clear quartz for mental clarity (I have yet to achieve this feat). In my diffuser, I have various essential oils burning for various purposes. My bulletin board sits to my right, pegged with misc. info relating to my current WIP. The children scream behind me. The dog comes up and starts his manic episode (dancing in circles, barking loudly, nudging my hand. He wants to pee).When the kids (DH included, of course!) start bugging me for things like food, water, etc., I bare my imaginary fangs and hiss (I've discovered a yen for becoming a vampire since reading JR Ward's vampire series--thanks, Eli and Lisa!).This doesn't work. My DD laughs and my toddler has no earthly clue what a "vampire" is.But, I digress.So, come summer, I will be in a new space. This one will actually have four walls all for me! The mind boggles. In my head, I've already been painting the walls. I think I will like this imaginary space when it comes into being.