Tuesday, December 13, 2011

The Mind of a Writer...

On top of my dresser in my bedroom sits a ceramic dish in the form of an upturned baseball glove.
It holds any manner of small items like keys, a couple of  plastic things (I have no idea what they're for, I think the yellow one is the firing pin safety plug for one of my guns....I think....) and other stuff.                                                    

     Occasionally I go through drawers, closets, file cabinets, and the lost world under my bed - looking to clean up(which usually means moving it somewhere else in the house) clutter and possibly locate things I forgot I had, which I almost always find. Why dear God why, do I have a 16 pound sledge hammer under my bed? Well, It must be there in case I need to pound my way out of the rubble.....ya never know.....
I didn't realize till the other night that I have 12 pairs of brand new, never worn, shoes, boots and athletic footwear in one end of my closet, as well as numerous shirts (15 - 20), and pricey sweaters which I'll probably never wear unless I strike it rich and buy a 100' sailboat. The expensive tan suede cowboy boots are a must for anyone who plans on maybe owning another horse someday.Which I do.
It could happen.........
At this point in my writing career I should be used to thinking like one, a writer that is.... It's a totally resident and highly invasive thought process for me now. 
In rummaging through the items in the ceramic glove on my dresser I found 2 or 3 old, really old keys and my reaction was - of course - that of a writer.
Now, any normal person would grab the items in said dish, on one's dresser, and ask another normal person, if available, such as a wife, or elderly relative(who knows more than she's telling) if they knew what these items might go to, what they are for or if they maybe recognize them, right?  But -  if you're a writer, an action adventure thriller mass market commerical fiction author, which I am thankyouverymuch, then the imagination goes wild with possibilities. It will ignore or in fact zoom right past a typical and or borderline rational thought process. (It's a gift.....the doctor says....)
After getting past a tidal wave of fear that I was suffering from early dimentia because I could recall no memory of what the keys opened or went to, my buzzing writers mind began to explore possible answers.
One of the keys looked a lot like the key to a safe deposit box and in fact probably is (I DON'T have a safe deposit box, so, right off the bat the plot thickens) but I imagined I did and had the clarity to structure it in a mental outline, that it did in fact belong to a safe deposit box in a bank  in another state or foreign country far away. And, that in said box were old black and white snapshots of people who looked like me, papers that a long lost relative left for me to find, and still more keys which were to an abandoned villa in the french alps that was waiting for me to arrive and discover who murdered my long lost relative, the patriarch of my bloodline and said villa, that also had a really big heated swimming pool with jacuzzi. Maybe they were my real mother or father and knew I would one day find the truth about who I really am, and my destiny as rightful heir and rebel leader of an oppressed people long held under the death grip of an evil dictator of this country. I needed to find that box, get into it, take the stacks of money, papers, maps (if any), cool Rolex diving watch, and begin a perilous journey into the unknown. I would need to locate and buy a weapon and bullets when I arrived, the cash would come in handy.
I casually wondered if there might be any good bbq joints in any of the quaint yet sinister surrounding villages.
But why an odd amount of $87,000 dollars, American? What if someone was watching for the arrival of a "deliverer"(which would be me or a mysterious interloper of dubious origin yet to be named) and had a plot in place to murder them too?
I might need a team of mercenaries which also means I would have to charter a private jet or yacht (aha! I knew the meaning of the pricey sweaters and boat shoes would make sense sooner or later!) to make a stealth entry through a friendly bordering country, one that would, for a price and through a contact named Calderone, be willing to supply us with weapons, night vision goggles and a helicopter, a fast one.
Hold on, $87,000 dollars wasn't looking like so much money all of a sudden. I needed to examine the old papers in that box to see if they held the clues to how or where I might find the funding my ancestor surely knew I would need.
Yes, BINGO, we have a winner! An account statement from this same bank, upon which I was named and had access to, held almost 3 million dollars. Ok, we're in business, I was good to go.
How stupid I was to have walked past this key sitting on my dresser all this time.
Maybe fate played a hand, not letting me come upon the truth until I was capable and had a willing heart. Interesting.....
Perhaps this was why I had unknowingly bought and stored clothes I would need for this perilous journey. The sledge hammer made sense now too.....sort of..
It all seemed to fit together somehow.
But who could I now trust? The answer - NO ONE!  Not even my dog, who seems to be eyeing me suspiciously lately.
As soon as "Wheel of Fortune" was over I would probe Granny for information on family history since any and all she could tell me might, just might, keep me and my team alive. 
It might require her potty chair, duct tape and an overhead hot lamp.We'll see if she cracks.

Trust no one, tell no one. Check. Passport. Check. Box of Twinkies. Check.
My thoughts are interrupted by stealthy, slow footsteps echoing down the long, cold tile hallway. An assasin? Maybe. Or, it could be my sexy seductress wife wondering if I was ready to go out for BBQ. I deftly slip the key into my pocket, or maybe I should place it back in the glove so no one would know I now knew, and of my pending mission.
I decide the key stays with me from now on, let the chips fall where they may. I imagine I hear the "Mission Impossible" theme song playing......                                                                                                                                                                                                  
     I think after dinner I'll take my significant other, who could be a planted agent, to the "SpyShop" to see if it rattles her calm exterior, and to get some cool stuff.
In the meantime I must collect my thoughts and potential best-seller ideas and commit them to paper, or a program in my computer. I pledge to myself to continue to monitor my surroundings at all times for good story ideas and at all costs to develop them.
The mind of a writer.
Some would say that were it not for the minds of  writers humanity might still be chasing food with clubs. I personally think we'd all be dead if it wasn't for Ian Fleming. 
Still - others might say - Thank God for patient editors, agents, artist communities, booze and pro-zac(as opposed to amateur-zac....).
Whatever your thoughts may be, I, for one, am blessed and pleased to have the mind of a writer.

Keep writing writers! 

...you know where to find me....