Avoiding the Obvious by Surprising Yourself
Recently, I spent the whole day wearing some slacks and at the end of the night I took them off, shook them out, holding them up, and discovered a rip in the seat. I had walked around all day with my butt showing. You see, I don't wear underwear.
I just did it! I just surprised myself! I was going to write something about being surprised when finding the hole in my slacks to make my next point. But I just did what I'm trying to do in this essay. As my fingers danced across the keys and got to "butt showing," an uncontrollable image rushed across my mind: it's funnier if I don't wear underwear, and it's probably unexpected. Well, maybe just for those of you who don't know me.
Wait, wait, wait. I wear underwear, for crying out loud. Okay, it's a thong. Now you know.
I apologize for the image.
But that's how it can happen. I can make my writing more interesting and funnier (I hope) by avoiding the obvious.
When I was writing my play, American Right, I knew I wanted the detective interrogating the professor to have some kind of evidence that linked him to the disappearance of another professor with whom he had had conflicts. But I didn't know what that would be. So I began to write the scene. And as I intuitively began to reach a climax--in the dialogue, for crying out loud!--the detective...reaches into a Playmate cooler that I had in the scene holding cold drinks...and...he pulls out...what? He pulls out...a test tube...and in the test tube is...a finger. A finger!? What the--!?
I sat there thinking about what my impulsive mind had just done to my play. Was this the proverbial monkey-wrench? Or was it THE ANSWER. This was not obvious to me, because I didn't know how a severed finger in a test tube linked the professor to the disappearance. But the impact of this was, to me, dramatic and unexpected. Visually, it might have an "oh, ick!" response from the audience, too. Which I liked. That leaping, little surprise pinky-finger pushed me over the cliff of the obvious, and as I fell into the unknown, my mind ignited. And the who, what, when, where, and why--and how!--exploded like fireworks over me.
Not only did I avoid the obvious and surprise myself, I created interesting details of my story that might not have been discovered if not for that little finger. And it didn't happen sitting at Starbucks, drinking a tall Pike and pondering my play. It happened as I wrote. That doesn't mean I can't surprise myself when I'm not sitting at the keyboard. But like acting and cooking, the creative writing rises from the process, the movement around the stage, the change in expression, the holding of the onion and paprika, the letters turning into words on the monitor. Action stimulates my subconscious mind. And since my brain has a mind of it's own, I allow it to surprise me, and I trust it.
Now. I don't want you believing I wear a thong. And that's not me in the photograph! That's ridiculous. I spend enough time trying to keep things out of there. Okay, so, seriously: I wear regular briefs. Hanes. Black ones. Okay, black, because they hide the skid marks.
I just did it! I just surprised myself! I was going to write something about being surprised when finding the hole in my slacks to make my next point. But I just did what I'm trying to do in this essay. As my fingers danced across the keys and got to "butt showing," an uncontrollable image rushed across my mind: it's funnier if I don't wear underwear, and it's probably unexpected. Well, maybe just for those of you who don't know me.
Wait, wait, wait. I wear underwear, for crying out loud. Okay, it's a thong. Now you know.
I apologize for the image.
But that's how it can happen. I can make my writing more interesting and funnier (I hope) by avoiding the obvious.
When I was writing my play, American Right, I knew I wanted the detective interrogating the professor to have some kind of evidence that linked him to the disappearance of another professor with whom he had had conflicts. But I didn't know what that would be. So I began to write the scene. And as I intuitively began to reach a climax--in the dialogue, for crying out loud!--the detective...reaches into a Playmate cooler that I had in the scene holding cold drinks...and...he pulls out...what? He pulls out...a test tube...and in the test tube is...a finger. A finger!? What the--!?
I sat there thinking about what my impulsive mind had just done to my play. Was this the proverbial monkey-wrench? Or was it THE ANSWER. This was not obvious to me, because I didn't know how a severed finger in a test tube linked the professor to the disappearance. But the impact of this was, to me, dramatic and unexpected. Visually, it might have an "oh, ick!" response from the audience, too. Which I liked. That leaping, little surprise pinky-finger pushed me over the cliff of the obvious, and as I fell into the unknown, my mind ignited. And the who, what, when, where, and why--and how!--exploded like fireworks over me.
Not only did I avoid the obvious and surprise myself, I created interesting details of my story that might not have been discovered if not for that little finger. And it didn't happen sitting at Starbucks, drinking a tall Pike and pondering my play. It happened as I wrote. That doesn't mean I can't surprise myself when I'm not sitting at the keyboard. But like acting and cooking, the creative writing rises from the process, the movement around the stage, the change in expression, the holding of the onion and paprika, the letters turning into words on the monitor. Action stimulates my subconscious mind. And since my brain has a mind of it's own, I allow it to surprise me, and I trust it.
Now. I don't want you believing I wear a thong. And that's not me in the photograph! That's ridiculous. I spend enough time trying to keep things out of there. Okay, so, seriously: I wear regular briefs. Hanes. Black ones. Okay, black, because they hide the skid marks.
Tom! T.M.I My eyes, My eyes, My brain!
With all seriousness, The imagery was intuitive.
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Classic Tom Eubanks. I'm awake now.
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