You may be a writer if...

I know it's been ages since I've posted here. Since I'm too sleep deprived to think of anything intelligent to say, let's play this game instead. I think it was Josie Kilpack who said:

"... you know what a rejection letter sounds like going down the toilet"
"... you know what a rejection letter sounds like going down the garbage disposal"

Ones I thought of:

"...you've rewritten every Oscar winning movie ten times (even though you've only written the first third of your own novel)"
"...you still talk to the imaginary friend you've had since you were six"
"...you know exactly which pockets in your cargo pants can hold a trade paperback, which can hold a mass market paperback, and which can hold a netbook"

I'm sure you all can do better!

Alligators and Imagination

Posted by Jonene Ficklin

“Mom! Mom! Come here quick. There’s an alligator in my egg.”

Okay, what's your first impression when you read that? (You get invisible bonus points if you write it down in the comment box : )

So here’s what really happened:

My eleven-year-old son came home from scouts and announced that he had to cook three meals all by himself. Also, they had to be things that he would eat if he were camping. Now he can make a killer PB&J, but that’s the limit of his cooking expertise. So we start with the basics. Fried eggs. A camping favorite.

I stay in the kitchen, but keep a safe distance, ready to save the day if he starts a fire or something.

He’s happy as a clam over at the stove, cracking eggs onto our big camp griddle. And then he says the alligator thing.

What??? I’m four steps away and he’s blocking the view.

Have you ever noticed how the curious mind – not satisfied with waiting to see – goes right to work? It builds wild and crazy explanations in an effort to make sense where there is none.

So as I’m crossing the room, the ideas begin flowing:

Hypothesis 1: Somehow an alligator egg got mixed into my egg carton and I’m going to find its sizzling embryo curled up on the stove.

Hypothesis 2: My son said the wrong word. What might he have meant? Elevator? Calculator?

Hypothesis 3: The egg is spoiled and green.

Hypothesis 4: I have no idea what he means and these are the longest four steps I’ve taken since he was two and ran out in front of a car. (He didn’t get hit. I was the only one traumatized).

By this time, I reach him and look. As it so happens, it was none of the above. Here is a photo we took. I’m sure you can see the alligator on the left side, trying to eat the egg on the right.

Now it makes perfect sense. But my imagination is on fire and tingling. It’s awesome! I can’t help thinking about my new story. (I haven’t written a word yet. I’m not letting myself until I finish the final polishing of my current WIP, which is mere days away.)

Still, I’m neck deep in the thinking stages, and it’s marvelous! I love the rush of the initial idea, the clip of story ready to blossom into something big. I love getting to meet and then know the heroes and villains, envision the adventures, concoct the heartbreaks, the big reveals, the glorious, perfect (I hope) ending.

And if I don’t like it, I can change it . . . just like that. (Evil laugh here.) There’s an awful lot of power involved in the thinking process. I can barely wait to get to work.

And if I get writer’s block, I know just what to do to get the ideas flowing. I’ll let my son cook again. But this time, I’ll stay SIX steps away.