"Are you kidding? My life is a story!" I usually don't say because some of my stories are about my husband, her brother, and I don't want him to feel awkward around her. As far as the crazy goes, I'm afraid she may be right. My uncle is Schizophrenic, and I have begun to hear voices every now and then, usually calling my name or whispering around me (ooh, spooky, is this passed down genetically through family members?). I never answer them, nor do I strike up a conversation, but I always turn in their direction...but, of course, no one is ever there. However, if I eventually do become Schizophrenic, I think I will have great fun with this mental illness (but what if it isn't an illness at all? What if my uncle really sees and talks to...ghosts?). I can't wait to creep people out. For now, I do it with some of my stories.
Alright, so let's back up a little bit. As I have said, my life is a story, that's why I don't really have to search too much for an idea. Often I plug in events from my life to a larger piece, or an idea plays out in my head like a film (although it soars through my mind within a second or so, in which I can clearly see the plot and the characters, and for me, the important thing is to know the ending, otherwise I can't write. Coming up with the antecedent scenario is so much easier.). So with this, I can discredit the favorite line of many creative writing professors', which is: "Just make up some good sh!t." You don't have to make up sh!t. It's all around you. Just open your eyes.
I also once read that "Fiction is a true story that never happened." In my opinion, everything is fiction, and if you are writing about your or others' experiences then the fiction did happen. If you sit in the corner, as I have suggested yesterday, and observe the world in front of you carefully and then try to put your observations down on paper, you will never be able to recreate their veracity because it has already passed. Here comes that tricky little concept called time. Everything as we know it revolves around time. You can turn your clock back, but never the events. Therefore, anything you try to write down will always be fiction, no matter how true you try to stay to actuality. Here, I'm trying to discredit the Non-fiction genre, which is my friend and fellow writer, James Wheeler's mission. He does it so much better than me, though.
Okay, so just to prove to you how easy it is to reach into your life and grab a story, here's an event that actually took place but is now a fictional piece. It's about my husband (don't tell Jessica) and me and my experience here.
When my husband came out of the smoke shop and passed me the small silvery bag dotted with colorful flowers and Scooby’s goofy grin on it, I couldn’t help but burst out laughing.
“What the hell is this?” I asked.
“You know…like pot, but this is legal.”
I raised my eyebrow.
“Trust me, you’ll like it. And it won’t get you sick.”
“I take it you’ve tried it before…”
I knew he was lying. I sighed.
He got in the car and we were off to the Coliseum.
The Scooby Snacks kicked in during Comfortably Numb.
I sat on my husband’s right side, my left ear pressed against his shoulder to at least partially silence the screaming of the fans. Suddenly, the awareness of my surroundings multiplied by a thousand, but it was no longer annoying. I peeled my ear off my husband’s shoulder. I felt as if a part of me had ascended an inch above my body. My ethereal I was in perfect stillness while my seated I began moving slowly from side to side. My eyes, able to see a pin in the crowd of people if it was necessary, focused on the wall in front of me. There was a blood red ocean projected on it, and I realized why my body was moving. It mimicked the ocean waves as they swayed back and forth.
The ocean slowly dissipated into a white nothingness. The wall, a perfectly pallid projecting screen, began to move. No, the wall wasn’t moving. Its insides were moving. Impossible. My ethereal I descended into me as I needed an extra focus to interpret what my eyes were seeing. Shadows. Gliding across the wall. No, they were not shadows. They were faces. Yes! Scary grimaces, stretching and oozing, with their tongues lolling out of their mouths…
“Do you see that?” I heard myself say.
Everyone around me was screaming. They must have seen it, too.
I hid my face in the cups of my hands. I was sure the faces were flying out of the wall. They needed a body to which they wanted to attach themselves. They wouldn’t get mine.
“Hurry! Look up!” My husband poked my rib with his elbow and shouted in my ear.
I did. Above my head, there was a large black pig. His nose and ears were pierced, his body tattooed and graffittied all over. I instinctively ducked as his tusks lowered toward my head. In the last minute the pig turned around and floated off. I exhaled and lifted my face into the white spotlight. Maybe an angel would float down and save me. Isn’t there a white light when one is dying?
I burst out laughing. The spotlight tickled my hair. My brain felt like it was expanding. Again, a part of me detached, but instead of ascending, my ethereal I flew inward. I could see my brain. Its cortical layers pulsed up and down, and every time they touched he inner side of my skull, a delightful tickle soared through my body. My seated I laughed and wiggled in the plastic chair.
I repeatedly poked my husband, “My brain tickles. Ahahaha. Honey, my brain tickles!”
He finally turned around, “You’re weird when you’re high.”