P'raps I got it from Doctor Who. P'raps not. For you who grew up on the Doctor, I was late to the show. I watched snippets of Tom Baker on Sunday mornings, his voice, ah his voice, running around and solving problems by little more than letting them play out.
Watch him and you'll see. So much work is done by not doing anything, it's how the world works. And he doesn't show up and prevent the bad from happening, he shows up when the bad has happened. I mean, he has a time machine. He could stop Hitler from being born, yet he doesn't, why? Because you're not ready to hear the solution until after the bad is well intrenched, it's as simple as that. Now the real adventure begins. Now the panic and knee bending and running around happens.
When they put Dr. Who on my local broadcasting station they had no idea what it was and put episodes up randomly. One episode, The Doctor was running from Cybermen, the next he was running from Daleks. I couldn't figure that out in the least. It wasn't until years later I got to watch whole story lines.
Played out in order they still didn't make much sense.
The Silence, went back in time and manipulated Earth world history to start the U.S. Space program in order to get a suit to house an assassin that was the stolen child of his companions in order to stop him from calling his home world back from a stasis that he didn't know existed in order to prevent a never ending war.
Could they have walked up behind him and bopped him on the head and be done with it?
But the adventure!
Once upon a time there was a girl who was displaced by a tornado and met with three men; one with a mental disability, one emotionally distant and the third a coward. They all faced challenges and learned what they really lacked was confidence. The end.
Not much of an adventure, is it?
If we were all born old, what then? We'd die sooner than later. It's going to happen, I'm fairly sure, and think of the resources we'd save! We should speed it all up and be done with it and save us the indignity of adult diapers.
Leaving adventure out of the mix entirely.
That would be hell. I mean the hell that those in hell dread. All those souls sloughing about in the miasma of teary swamps thinking to themselves of that bit of gratitude that they are NOT in that other hell of no adventure.
This is the post that I post about being depressed. It's 5 AM now.
Depression is that bit where those who have no idea what it is say, cheer up! Because we never thought of that before. Because we never thought of bucking up, and getting over it. God, where would we be without someone telling us to be happy?
Or P'raps they don't see the wearing away of our hope, the layers of oppression that medicine only slows the build up of the tidal wave of despair.
I get it.
Lucky me tho, I have Craig Tyrone.
Remember him? He's at the top of this post. He's my image of a hero. He doesn't solve everything with guns and violence, he solves things by talking them out and getting to the bottom of things and making things better. He can cut through layers of darkness and be where he needs to be.
He's here with me.
If you need him, you can find him easy enough when you're ready.
This post was about writing. It was! I swear! But writing isn't about writing, it's about story which are two different things and woe be to any one who thinks it isn't, that it's the writer that controls the story. That's like saying the farmer controls the seasons.
He doesn't, I checked.
Depression takes away things that make you happy, slips them out from under you like a shadow in September. I didn't want to write, which makes me happy, so I wrote, as hard as it was. Sit there and bang out words regardless how much Bill Gates cocked up the world I just started putting out words. Last week I had let the story go, just go. I had an idea where it was supposed to go, but I gave up on that after the first sentence. I just put down words almost blindly thinking to myself they were awful, only worth deleting, but it's not the words, it's not the typing, it's the adventure of sitting here and listening music and rocking out and typing.
And writing a story doomed to be deleted.
Tonight I bought up the crap from last week, finger over the DELETE button.
And, surprise, it was brilliant.
Every word, every sentence, every letter, brilliant.
I deleted nothing, I changed nothing. I took up at the blinking curser and kept the story going.
Life isn't scripted, it isn't planned.
It is adventure.
Don't forget that.
And don't forget this.