Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Writing: Monkey Brain

I've been working on short stories between breathing new life into an old draft, getting some kinks worked out, likely creating twice as many, but it felt great. I've got over five thousand words in and boy do I feel productive. I do. I really do.

Then I realize it's midnight. My bedtime is ten. When I don't get to sleep at ten, I still wake up at five. I stay awake all day, and I feel like crap. I find myself googling the five signs of stroke and embolisms and recipes containing my yearly allowed sugar intake.

I've got Monkey Brain.

While the logical front section of my head tells the deeper, darker part of my brain goodnight, go to sleep, the computer isn't going anywhere, it'll still be here tomorrow and so will you. Don't worry about it, the story is in your head. Barring wild attacks by roaming zombie hunters who mistake you for the walking dead, chances are, your head will be here tomorrow too, and don't we both know how much better the head works after eight hours of sleep?

Yes we do. But do I fall asleep? No. The monkey brain is churning. It starts off with, "You don't need no stinking bedtime," and never really ends. The story keeps rolling on in my head like a flip silent movie, the sound's there, but the images are dark. I know that if I were copying it all down it would be the perfect novel, but monkey brain has no interest in the practical. No, it does not.

So I lay there staring at a ceiling I can't see, trying not to think about anything. The TV's off. I put the laptop down. I'm in a sensory free zone. This is what you're supposed to do to get to sleep.

Who the hell are these people kidding? I'm a writer, a person for whom meditation is nothing but a way to get the creative juices flowing. I thrive on monkey brain. After three seconds of no sound or light, I decide my cyber fighter's new guy could have a motorcycle...that flies, because cars fly...and, no, bad idea. Flying motorcycle equals some kind of weird pussy mobile. Flash Gordon like even. Oh, hell, men in tights. What was the name of that cartoon cat? Not Robin Hood, that was an animated fox, and he didn't have tights. He was naked from the waist down.

Maybe Wendy doesn't give a rat's fluff about international espionage and finds a hot boyfriend instead. She's at his house baking turtle brownies when his brother comes over and finds out she hacked his servers, and then he takes all the brownies. Mmm, brownies sound good, and that guy's brother is really selfish. Wendy vows to make hash of his servers, right after she makes more brownies, because turtle brownies.

I really want brownies, but I think the milk expired, and I'd have to make caramel. It's too late for that. I'm already in bed, and I don't have any pecans. I should go to the store tomorrow. No, go Thursday. That one thing is coming in the mail and you have to be out anyway. Never leave the house twice if you can do it once. Will they even have mail in the future? They have to have something. 3D printers that accept file downloads, like faxes, except you get stuff?

Stuff like sushi or chicken curry, extra spicy. What kind of diseases would you get from printed food? Especially if you had bio implants of some kind. Anyone, anywhere could be killed ordering take out that comes with a virus that downloads and disrupts all your systems as you eat. One minute you're swilling a fine wine and the next you shit that new kidney you got last year. Think of the inconvenience, and the mess. Nobody would order take out. Food would be the only thing they would need to leave the house for...and they would all forage in government farms that robots take care of because they can't trust restaurants either, or processors -- an entire world of bio implanted, genetically modified, Bordeaux drinking, hunter gatherers. 

Definitely can't have leotard-wearing men flying motorcycles as they steal from the rich mixing with that. And did I seriously create a world without sushi and turtle brownies? I don't think I can deal. Reboot!

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