Peculiar x 2

A few weeks ago I had the extremely unoriginal occurrence of taking the bus on a Sunday morning. Why I write about this today (and not bloody then) can only be attributed to my failing memory and the fact that the napkin where I took some original notes on this was playfully hiding from me under a growing pile of paper, most of it useless, that sits on my desk. I usually spend the bus ride reading, except when there's entertaining people-watching to do. That morning, a couple of original occurrences awaited me, in the form of two curious men.

The first one got on the bus two stops after I did. Despite his obvious intention to disguise himself as a younger man with the cunning use of a "Primark" coat, I reckon he must have been over 40. His cheeks were of a very intense red, for some reason. I like to think that the merry tones weren't caused by ruthless drinking that early in the morning. Although come to think of it, it might have. He had this whole Don Quixote look (literally, goatee and crazy eyes). He started angrily preaching, directly to the driver, about how outrageous it was that it was Sunday, 11-ish (as if this was paramount data for his speech, uncalled for anyway) and that a "female" was driving the bus. There's no moral or social message here, I just find it so hard to believe that people like this man are still around, wandering the world and hopping on buses.

Seriously: if THIS had happened that morning,
do you think I wouldn't be telling you about it instead?
Look at the smiling woman, she is hilarious.

The second strange man got off the bus (okay, I probably missed him getting on, give me a break) when the driver pulled off to take a phone call. This one was a bit older, and his cheeks clearly weren't as red. If you are in a hurry, this may not go down well, that I understand. Although, if that's the choice, I personally prefer them to stop: sure, stop and take your call, by all means, rather driven around by someone with two hands available, thanks very much. But this man in particular seemed to suddenly burst into pure anger for just a few seconds, he then got up from his seat and off the bus (the driver had no choice but opening the doors before he'd destroy them by using his pure instant-developed rage). Then he just stayed there, giving his back to the bus, silently making his point. His wrath had turned into calmed dissatisfaction by then. I may have seen a touch of regret in his eyes when we set off again, maybe in response to the chilly whether he had come to forget about, enveloped by the comfort of the bus. Or simply to the prospect of the long wait for the next vehicle. Luckily, there was some construction work in the pavement, right where he had got off. And he soon seemed to find in closely, thoughtfully examining it the new purpose of his life.

Now you might think this is not curious at all. Maybe it wasn't that interesting and I was just looking for excuses to keep my book in my bag. In all fairness, it's quite a thick book.

Creating or trying to: Love, hate and commitment

If you struggle to become a writer or to produce any other form of minimally creative or art-like piece of work too, you have probably figured it out already: it's VERY important to learn to control the process itself before it controls you (whatever this means). Creating is a funny thing. At least it is for me, and I find it very interesting how it all comes to be... and sometimes even comes together.

It usually happens this way:

You have an idea. You love it. It is unlike anything else you've heard, seen or experienced before. You feel sky high. Yeah, it's the one, THE idea, no doubt. The one you'll finally get some serious credit for. Probably some money too. Big money. That idea you want to tell all your friends about so they can look at you in awe and tell you how incredibly creative you are. And it was so sudden, as well, you probably took quick, condensed, powerful notes on some Starbucks paper napkin. Or on toilet paper, or stolen post-it notes (anything is valid, remember you had THE idea). Hardly a few intelligible words anyway. Damn, that's just scribbling, isn't it? Will you even be able to even understand your own cryptic writing when you take on the task -and surely you can do this blindfolded- of making this idea a palpable reality? Well, never mind, you
are still amazed at yourself for having such a great occurrence, the sun shines brighter than ever, and you want to dream on.

Next day. The same idea that you loved to bits just hours ago, now you absolutely hate it. Moreover, you hate yourself for even liking the idea once and thinking that you could create something worth being seen/read/whatever. How could you not realise that the idea was rubbish, or a simply impossible project? Or maybe both. Were you drunk? Maybe you were so drunk that you can't remember being drunk? Were you an idiot? Are you still??

Two things are true about this creature: it's just too weird
and it has nothing to do
with the content of this article whatsoever.

You then probably decide to leave it aside for a while. Then one day you come up with something to make the story work again. Obviously, it's a great "something", the "something" that will finish with all the plot holes and undefined characters, the "something" that will finally give the story the spark that it was lacking. You are obviously happy with all this, but for how long? Will it last one, two days? The cycle repeats itself a few times through the process, threatening to leave you with yet another unfinished project.

So, as of late, I've added a next step. And I suppose this is what I wanted to say (damn, you really are a loyal reader if you are still here after all the rambling). Passion is good. Coming up with ideas, a necessary source of material. But commitment, discipline, and actual time spent in developing and making all these ideas come true, is the only way of... well... of making them come true.

Do it! One think is for sure: you will never know whether the idea was good or not if you never bloody make it happen!

Not expecting that surprising ending, were you? :-P