“My heart, the garbage disposal of my soul, should it ever demand any less of me, I’d cease to exist. Still, there are times when the damn thing just stinks of decaying waste. Let us hope this is not one of those times …” ~Breanne Braddy
Does it freak you out that I just quoted myself? I hate it when people do that … but this one time I’ve made an exception. I mean … I am technically writing under my pen name here.
So why now? Because today, my friends and fellow authors/readers/bloggers … I turn 30. Bear with me, I promise this will relate to writing.
That quote was something I said in a status update on my wall, nearly a full year ago. It was attached to a post entitled, “No Small Measure,” originally written here April 11, 2010. The post was about depression and madness, and all of those things that seem to dog our heels as creative souls. That isn’t meant to sound melodramatic or self-absorbed, rather, bluntly realistic. Our world isn’t like everyone else’s. It will never be. And I think, personally, it’s taken me 30 years to get used to that idea.
We’re often asked where our ideas come from. Books have been written on how to conjure the muse (mine is a bitch, but generally complies with promises of chocolate or vodka). But … where do our ideas come from?
What leads us to chose a certain character’s name in particular, out of the multitude of reasonable options? What causes us to take note of the brownish grime on our mother’s friend’s stove, or the yellow hue of the doily on the nearby coffee table? Why do we notice the patterns and lyricism in the actions of our family and friends? Are we born this way?
We’re old souls who have lived, if but for a moment, some part of each tale we pen. This is no less a feat than those composures who begun their toiling work at the tender age of 5—still a youth—or those who recount great battles and lives from times they’re far too young to have been educated on. Somehow … we know these things like a mother knows the sound of her child’s cry, like a sailor knows the temperament of the sea. They are, and we cannot ever recall a time when they were not.
Think back on your childhood … despite any traumas or upsets … was there ever a time when you weren’t creating something?
You could perhaps say simply that we just never stopped playing make-believe. But, it wasn’t quite that … simple, was it? We saw, experienced, something altogether different from our peers. We told stories even then, with every available method, at every opportune time.
And some really inopportune times (say, retelling dad’s dirty joke in the middle of children’s church at First Methodist).
But, we’re not normal. And … I’m OK with that. Really. If I weren’t neurotic, and believe me I am, then I wouldn’t be able to write the way that I do. And despite how anyone else sees my work, I’m happy with that too. Maybe that’s what growing up is all about—coming to terms with one’s self and making peace with the demons. Who knows.
SO, why is there a picture of She-Ra in this post? Because I lived, ate, breathed and slept Masters of the Universe when I was a kid. And turning old has me thinking back on all things retro. That artistic rendition is as grown-up a version of my childhood favorite as I could find (that wasn’t ridiculous). My deepest apologies if you’re not familiar with who She-Ra is.
But, the question of the day is this: What word/name in Guardians of Legend pays tribute to Masters of the Universe? Winner gets a free signed paperback of Son of Ereubus. No, I’m not kidding. I’m feeling generous. Leave your answer in the comments. And this isn’t a marketing ploy, I’m morbidly curious to see if anyone caught it.