Two People Find a Watermelon

Setting: an empty stage save for a bare table with a watermelon under it.

MARY enters, sees the watermelon, and hides it under her shirt. Jane enters from the opposite side.

JANE: What are you doing?
MARY: I'm pregnant!
JANE: Is that a watermelon?
MARY: It looks like a baby.
JANE: Not once you take it out from under your shirt, it doesn't.
MARY: Why must you be such a wet blanket?
JANE: If you want to get pregnant, why don't you find a man and get knocked up?
MARY: Yeah, thanks. That's much better.
JANE: There are fertility clinics.
MARY: Maybe I don't want to be pregnant for nine months.
JANE: Good, because I doubt the watermelon would last that long.
MARY: Quit it.
JANE: What about an adoption agency?
MARY: I don't want a baby. I just want to be pregnant.
JANE: Why?
MARY: Have you ever noticed how pregnant women are treated?
JANE: I can't say I was paying attention.
MARY: People are nice to them. Complete strangers go out of their way to help.
JANE: I can get strangers to help me too.
MARY: How's that?
JANE: I still have the gun from yesterday's sketch.

Scene.

Two People Find a Gun

Setting: an empty stage, save a bare table in the middle with a gun under it.

MARY enters, passes, notices the gun, double-takes, squats to one knee. JANE enters from the other side.

JANE: Is that yours?
MARY: Nope.
JANE: What's it doing there?
MARY: I dunno. I just found it.
JANE: Is it real?
MARY: Haven't touched it.
JANE: It's probably not real.
Mary picks it up.
MARY: It's heavy.
JANE: How heavy? Is it loaded?
MARY: Can you tell by the weight?
JANE: It makes sense that you should be able to.
MARY: I've never held a gun before.
JANE: We should probably report it.
MARY: To whom?
JANE: I don't know. The lost and found?
MARY: They'll keep it for themselves.
JANE: So what should we do, take it or leave it?
MARY: It probably belongs to somebody.
JANE: Does it look like a cop's gun?
MARY: You can see it as well as I can.
JANE: Don't get snippy with me.
MARY: I'm sorry. It makes me nervous.
JANE: So leave it.
MARY: But what if someone else finds it and takes it?
JANE: That would be the point of leaving it.
MARY: Maybe I should take it and post signs.
JANE: That say what? Found gun? That's bound to create more hassle than this.
MARY: So should I take it or leave it?
JANE: Give it to me.
MARY: Why do you need a gun?
JANE: I don't. But you don't want the hassle and I'll put it somewhere safe.
MARY: Why would someone leave a gun behind? (gasps) What if it's a murder weapon.
Jane smells the barrel.
MARY: What are you doing?
JANE: You're supposed to be able to smell whether or not a gun was recently fired.
MARY: So was it?
JANE: I don't know.
MARY: What does it smell like?
JANE: Like a gun.
MARY: You're not very helpful.
JANE: I said don't get snippy with me. I have a gun, you know.

Jane carries the gun offstage, Mary follows.

Scene.



Same Setting: an empty stage, save a bare table in the middle with a gun under it.

BILL enters, passes, notices the gun, double-takes, squats to one knee. GARY enters from the other side.

BILL: Holy crap, Gary! Look what I found!

Bill picks up the gun, accidentally shoots Gary, who falls dead.

Scene.

Fodder I Hope to Use Someday

Story ideas that need to grow some flesh and blood

1. WJOE. A radio show accidentally gives Joe's phone number out as the one to call for claiming contest wins. To make up for it (and avoid (threatened?) legal ramifications), they give Joe a couple prizes, including a guitar signed by Random Music Celebrity. Obsessive Max keeps calling Joe's number - caller ID gives a name, phone book provides address, Max wants the guitar. Joe can't shake him - break-in, confrontation...

2. Cruelty From Animals. No one keeps tabs on how many cats Old Lady Melda owns. Strays overrun her house, until people can't remember the last time they saw Melda herself. Kitties have grown feral and protective of their paranoid master...

3. You Can't Teach an Underdog New Tricks. Old tennis legend Morris enters a tournament, hits a hot streak, beats current favorites. Reaches finals to face Walt, who beat the lucky unranked schmuck who took out top seed. (Injury?) Walt got the easiest path ever to the finals, and now faces new crowd darling Morris. Morris reaches the edge of victory, but can't cross it; Walt wins and is loathed for ruining the feelgood story.

4. Overpopulation Patrol. An underground temp agency hires "thinners" to alleviate the human herds of their sick, weak, and undeserving. Insurance won't cover people who are thinned-out. Wiseman, insurance agent, receives terminal diagnosis, and should expect a visit. He's not ready to go.

Audio philes and phobes

I've not yet located my theme song for writing. When I play sports, any of a variety of tunes can get my adrenaline pumping. Oingo Boingo is fantastic, as their thrash-pop hooks get me bopping and dashboard drumming, but most upbeat tracks wake me and work me up. Whereas, I can settle down with some classical or jazz, or an occasional Enya album. Smooth grooves have their time and place too.

But here I am at my keyboard, searching through the recent songs my randomizer selected: U2, Trout Fishing in America, Heypenny, Jeff Buckley, Nickel Creek, Ben Folds, Seal, Colin Hay, Paul Simon, Prince... Hmm. Not a female lead singer in the bunch, unless you want to count Sarah Watkins. Could it be my issue is a lack of soprano inspiration?

Historically, I enjoyed plugging in a Bobby McFerrin - his songs tread on the safe side of wordless, so I'm not distracted by lyrics. They don't require intense listening and can be enjoyed as background ambience. Today? No interest.

I suppose I could write in silence. But I'd prefer it if I didn't have to. Give me an option and it feels like I'm in control; force my hand and I lose motivation. I suppose I could always borrow an album from my co-worker's Britney Spears collection. Or I could impale my ears with a pair of scissors. Same result.

Miss Elainey

If ever you need to stage a fight where one participant takes a roundhouse punch to the jaw, add the flair of knocking a few teeth out. In lieu of dental surgeries to properly yank molars, you can use white, peppermint life savers. Simply bite them into quarters, and with a quick spit into the hand, they look like broken teeth.


My wife wants a dog. I'm not allowed to offer hot dogs as the primary dinner option when it's my night for cooking. Somewhere in there is a hypocritical paradox.


Why hasn't anyone yet created scratch and sniff tattoos? I saw someone had implants beneath a girlie tattoo to provide actual buxomness to the illustration. Can some refillable aroma source be that far behind? (No, placing a skunk tattoo on an armpit doesn't qualify.)


Motorcycles lack the proper real estate for bumper stickers. I have seen riders utilize their helmets for such a purpose, though. (There's a joke/witty observation in here somewhere, but I can't find it and won't waste my time searching for it.)


Try as I might, I can think of few things more disturbing than a highly ticklish sumo wrestler. Hopefully that image won't haunt you for the rest of your day as well.

Unsportsmanship Rewards

Why must I be so obnoxious playing ultimate frisbee? Could it be because the name uses "ultimate" with no sense of pretention? If you suck at ultimate, are you still pretty good? Or, if like me, you happen to excel at ultimate, does that make my game penultimate frisbee? Regardless, why do I feel saddled with the burden of trash talking like a Crown Prince? If there are Harlem Globetrotters of frisbee, they can probably throw discs with their teeth and hit targets at obscene distances, catch a dozen tosses simultaneously, and look more natural in bright red, white and blue than I ever could. (Don't blame me; I'm a winter.)

Is it the constant yabbing that draws me out to the field Tuesday nights? Is it playing with (and schooling) kids half my age, two-thirds my weight, and twice my athleticism? Delusions of grandeur?

To the same extent, why don't I speak up as much on a softball field or volleyball court, where the players are a more captive audience? Perhaps the false sense of superiority is removed when I become the opposite end of the age spectrum. Pentagenarians aren't as easy to impress with a quick wit and a sharp tongue - to them I'm simply a wiseass whippersnapper. Could it be that I need to up my game to pro-levels? Not the sport itself, but the banter - after a solid spike, pull a sharpie from my sock and sign the volleyball before passing it to the crowd. Bash a dinger and do a victory lap around the bases? Victory dance? Victory lap dance?

Methinks I'll be quiet next time I play ultimate. I'll allow myself to speak up after someone asks me why I'm working the silent treatment. Or what's wrong. Or says, "Hi, Jim." (I'd hate to paint myself into a corner with limited options.)

99% Perspiration and 56/100% Ivory Soap

I have twenty-two minutes to share my genius, which should be plenty o' time. So... go.

Any minute now.

Inspiration strikes like lightning. And I had two good ideas last week, which means I'm not due again until at least August. Twenty-two minutes, my butt!

With Michael Vick getting so much grief for his dog abuse, I wondered where the humane association's line is. Are we allowed to fish? Magnify some sunlight on ants? Can I rig some contraption with spikes and morningstars to caterpillars and let them duke it out on a branch? If I sharpen the wings of a moth and tie strings to their antenna, can I conduct live kite fights without fear of repurcussion? Or am I limited to M&M fights? (Sure, plenty of people crush two finger-candies to see which prevails; I stomp on a bag to weed out the wimps up front.)

What do you mean, that doesn't qualify as brilliance?

If you can keep parts of your brain focused by doing things wrong-handedly (brushing your teeth with your opposite hand, for example), how much can you improve your mental facilities by doing things with the rest of your anatomy? Is there any other explanation of why so many Einsteins on the highway drive with their knees? Screw multi-tasking; we're talking omni-tasking! Whereas I, the foolish genius of the bunch, am merely unitalented. Once I figure out what that is, I'm going to be rich.

Which is to say: my talent is not earning money.

I do have a knack for babbling, though. I still have half my twenty-two allotted minutes left to spend however I want. And if time is indeed the money as the cliche states, I'll put some away now, some more away each week, and build quite a pile of it. Compound interest should help me afford college tuition for at least one of the boys.

That's as Mensa as I'm getting today.

Lemmings

...And you shall read my blog! And you shall cherish me and worship my brilliance! And you shall print hard copies to have something to tape in public restroom stalls for strangers to peruse as they sit and do their business! And you shall not hand-write at the top of each copy "to be used as toilet paper, but be careful, because the writer is already full of crap!" And you shall bring to mind the Ten Commandments, merely from the usage of the word "shall!" And you shan't use it's negative contraction, as it sounds like a dirty word! And you shall mentally separate these ideas into their own paragraphs while I deem it unnecessary! And you shall thank me for providing leadership and mentorship while sinking your mental battleship! And you shall recognize the crucial importance of doing all of the above because each directive ends with an exclamation point! And you shall consider this sufficient for a Friday entry!

Aspirations Toward Mediocrity

Does it matter that I'm blogging in a different time zone than I'm sitting? I should pay attention to when this posts, so I can determine where cyber-me resides.

Last night, I concocted Gil the Ghoul because I was bored. Plus, my sister is reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Plus, the Twilight series has spawned a plethora of wannabe authors who romanticize the supernatural, especially vampires. Zombies have always gotten a bum rap. I'm not sure Gil will level the scales towards ghoul-sympathy, but the ideas flowed freely and I amassed enough material to write for a few weeks. Unlike this blog, which I've barely advertised, I sent out several dozen friend requests from Gil. Thus far, one confirmed. Disappointing, but I expect with the rampant suspicion of internet scams and viruses, people don't want to involve themselves in anything shady. And I haven't posted a picture yet.

So if you're on Facebook and you happen to read this, please send Gilthe Ghoul (they wouldn't let me use Gil The Ghoul) a Friend Request. He'll post at least three notes weekly, and I hope they'll be as entertaining as I thought they were last night. Unless they're the fleeting comedies that aren't funny to anyone but myself. (Or not even myself, if the inspirations were false humor - much like false labor, they bear no real fruit.)

Eventually, I'll announce on StoryMash (and maybe my regular Facebook) that I'm maintaining this stupid journal. Before I do, I wanted to build a backlog - at least 30 entries - so it wouldn't look like yet another novelty with no follow through. Today's note is #18 and I don't post on weekends, so I'm looking at August. By that point, will the attempted joke alter-ego be as dead as every other zombie?

(Minor note: According to the time stamp, I'm posting from the west coast.)

Disciplinary Intangibles

For those who have been trained by it, no discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. However, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace.

That's Scriptural, and I quoted it from memory. So what if the main reason I know it is because Bobby McFerrin used it in a song? He happens to be a genius. If he's touring, you'd do yourself a favor to see him perform. So simple, yet brilliant.

Halfway through week four and I'd've ("I would" plus "would have" should have its own contraction) liked to've ("to have" - why not?) thought they'd get easier by now. Like working out. Or running. Once you hit a point where you're doing it every day, you'll miss it when you skip it. Except I've never once in my life regretted the absence of working out or running. Even if writing is my passion, I'm not much of a passionate person.

Is this blog properly absorbing my ideas? I had to think for five minutes of a decent Facebook status update, and I can normally spawn one-liners like an amateur magician on a riverboat. Speaking of which, a friend is holding his 40th birthday party tomorrow, and as gifts, he's asked each of his guests to prepare two minutes of stand up comedy. This should be easy for me. Sarcastic quips and quick shots are first-nature; I have to force myself into the second nature of kindness and gentleness. I even have a "Too Soon" theme - tasteless jokes told too soon after the death of prominent figures. Where is the acceptability line for offensive tributes?

Come to think of it, I used to write "spotlights" for a play-by-mail game, where my theme had less substance than a Seinfeld episode. Nothing about nothing about nothing. I enjoyed writing them, my audience patronized me with compliments, and by the end of it, I had regular contributions about zip. Much like this blog. Five paragraphs already? And what have I said?

Two Things I'll Never Use

The five-minute commute to my car after work affords me too much thinking time. I don't use it to obsess over work or figure out my itinerary for the evening. Rather, my mind wanders to uncharted territories. For example:

Two idiots get in an argument about whether or not Philly should've ever moved the statue of Rocky.

1: Dude, it's a historical monument.
2: No, it's not. It's a fictional character.
1: Rocky Balboa? No way.
2: Completely. Conceived, written, directed, and acted by Sylvester Stallone.
1: Seriously?
2: Yes. So it doesn't matter whether it's in front of the stadium or the art museum. You may as well put it in front of Stallone's house, if he owns a place here.
1: Hmm. Yeah, I guess it'd be like the Viatnamese arguing over where to put a statue of Rambo.
2: Um, no. No, it's not like that at all.

And another, dumber, cruder:

Thinking how my wife is so innocent/naive, she couldn't recite the infamous dirty limerick opening "There once was a man from Nantucket."

Comeback: Oh yeah? Well, your dick couldn't even do your belly button.


If the above truths lead you to contribute toward the "Jim Becker Needs an iPod" Fund, please remember your checks will be cashed, it is not tax-refundable, and there's no guarantee my music won't provide even odder inspiration(s).

Not Enough Of It

Is there any worthier procrastination than "something else"?

My self-imposed deadline for rewriting a 10,000-word story is tomorrow. Thus far, I'm still in three digit territory. I have the rough draft and much of it will be copying, pasting, and applying a light paintbrush. Sure, sure, I don't like the current ending segment so I need to concoct a new resolution, and that has caused me great trepidation. In light of that, I continually postpone picking up where I left off yesterday, opting instead to read Ebert's reviews, search for new publishing opportunities for already written (and already rejected multiple times) stories, check the Phillies' box score (when I don't care about pro baseball)... I haven't resorted to emery boarding my nails or updating my correspondence with long overdue email responses yet, but it's only 10:00. Oh yeah, and I'm doing this blog now.

Smooth. Write about putting things off. Feed the beast.

This must be what writers refer to when they preach how important it is to put something together not only during inspired times, but during the mundane. A writer writes. Billy-flipping-Crystal.

There's a dark humor sight gag here - with each new paragraph started, I'm staving off what I've declared important for yet that much longer. Which is why I'm cutting this off immedia

Greetings and Sanitations

Phone rings.

Me: Hello, this is Jim. How can I help you?

Caller: What happened to the way you usually answer the phone?

Me: People got confused.

Caller: At howdyhowdy?

Me: Yeah, I know. It's pretty dumb. Who cares if I answer Bona-acke-me-sigh like that old long-distance commercial? It's my phone, my business, right?

Caller: I guess. Why not just say hi?

Me: Boring. Maybe people will sense I'm being sarcastic with my formality.

Caller: You're an idiot. Why can't you do anything like a normal person?

Me: Why would I want to?

Caller: Good point.

Me: I assume there was a reason for your call?

Caller: Yes... Right. I forget.

Me: And I'm the idiot for not answering the phone with hi?

Nibbles and Bites

I have a bug bite inside my navel. Somehow, the insect (probably a chigger) found a spot I can't scratch without rigorous effort, and that invokes the fear of inverting my belly button. Part of me is fascinated with the idea of doing so, especially if it turns out like a balloon opening. Me, one of the world's biggest whoopee cushions! (I will neither take credit for being the world's biggest whoopee cushion nor will I research the size or location of such a novelty. If that's how you want to spend your morning, God bless you and keep you away from me.)

For those of you hoping for something more blogtastic, I decided who the three people are that I'd want to have dinner party with: Steve Martin (the performer, not the mystery author), Joss Whedon, and Mark Twain. Were I in a wittier mood, I'd attempt writing what the supper conversation would entail. Unfortunately, all I can think of right now are crappy jokes about Twain's corpse collecting flies. Whedon would find be snarky, complaining to the waiter about the maggots in his soup, while Martin would take the high road, somehow maintaining nonchalance as he grew increasingly perturbed that Twain would be too dead to pass the salt.

Other candidates for that dinner party include Steve Taylor (the greatest lyricist ever), Bill Murray (who everyone, even strangers, claim I remind them of), Jesus (I hesitate at the potential discomfort because we would have trouble letting loose), Weird Al Yankovic (tragically underappreciated), Theodore Geisel, Jim Henson, and Shel Silverstein (see previous post).

Hmm. Not a woman in the bunch. I suppose that means we can fart at the table.

Vainglorious Anonymity

I've not yet added sponsors or ads to this, as I don't fully comprehend the method, the purpose, or the advertisers who would want to attach themselves to my writing. On Storymash.com, it's often humorous to see what text searches relate to my stranger chapters, but I can't say I've ever followed one of their recommended links. Besides, I have to download the software to earn cash from these... entries. (Observations? Installations? Reservations?)

How long before I break the floodgates and announce this venture? I'm up to Week 3 now; does it still count as new? Should I amass several months of disciplined contributions to have a worthwhile backlog? Does it make any difference?

Writing is wonderfully awful. Authors crave recognition. I struggle to believe the altruistic few who claim they write for themselves, and yet, that's what I've claimed to do since June. Isn't this a cry for comments, validity? I have talent! Look at me! Read me! Love me! (How much do I suddenly feel like my five-year-old?)

I'm proud that I've maintained this weekdaily, and I hope to continue it as a discipline. Someday, if/when something I pen breaks into the mainstream, perhaps someone will dig this up to discover more about my writing roots. Until then, a few paragraphs each day keep the doctor away. That, and being healthy.

Camping-Challenged

My family joined a crowd from our church to go camping in early June. Unpleasantness abounded, highlighted mostly by our two-year-old's inability/unwillingness to lie still in a tent. Inflatable mattresses are not made for more than one person, regardless of the sizes of the mattress or the people. Were it not for s'mOreos, I'd've never suggested backyard camping with friends for July 3. If Scooter opted to stay awake, one of us (ME!) could stay in my bed and wake up with him. How poorly could it go?

* Around 11:00, we spotted a white skunk. Rather large, and I thought old. Dogs' hair grows white as they age, so why not skunks? It wasn't an albino, or else its eyes would've been pink. White Stinky decided that our campground was his campground, and he had little fear of humans. He made a half dozen apperances within twenty feet, the closest of which was when he ran next to my chair. Had I reached down, I could've grabbed him. Pass.

* Inspired by White Stinky, a younger standard black-and-white skunk followed suit and made himself at home. Our fire pit - sufficiently bright and hot enough to keep me worried about igniting my dry grass and our subdivision - was no deterrent. The gentlemen's club waited until they were around my house before peeing lines to mark our territory, and they didn't cross the streams. Thank God for Ghostbusters?

* Not to lose the jump on anyone, fireworks started erupting at 2:00. A.-FRICKING-M. One every five minutes or so, which provided enough time to fall back asleep and/or believe the predawn festivities were completed. No rhyme or reason, but plenty of proximity. I'd like to personally deliver a box of lit M-80s to the doorstep of the redneck idiot who couldn't read his watch.

* At 4:30, Justin wakes up and demands "I want breakfast!" No, go back to bed. "BREAKFAST!" I offer the most threatening look I can muster, which, between sleep-deprivation, aggravation, and disgust, must've done the trick. He lies back down. Five minutes later, he needs to go potty.

Oh yeah, I neglected to mention: Scooter wouldn't sleep in the tent. We gave up on that idea around 10:30. Since Les had a lesson to plan, she stayed inside with him.

I leave the tent, scan for the Stinktwins, let Justin in the house, and he opts to use his own bed. I also notice one of the families has deserted Campground Becker, doubtless because of the timeless bomber.

* 5:15 - another kid wakes up. Fortunately, we're prepped for this, and we told his Dad how to get in, turn on our upstairs entertainment center, and sleep on our couch.

* I wake up around 8:20 with the tent flap hanging open, no kids nearby, and no rest. Because of our family's scheduled events of July 4, I don't pack the tent back into its bag. It rains. More today. Hopefully it'll dry out by mid-week.

Next time they want to camp, I'm unscrewing their ceiling light, handing them flashlights, and building a bedsheet fort. Period.

*

Teachers and Pupils

I'm left-eye dominant, which forced me to learn how to shoot a bow left-handed. Not that anyone forced me to learn how to shoot a bow. Rifles, too. Fortunately, guns and bows (at least the ones I learned on) aren't crafted favoring handedness. Unfortunately, my right hand is considerably steadier than my left. Credit that to years of tennis, frisbee, baseball, and a variety of other sports (see stupid exercise post) that predominantly use my right hand. My left arm is basically used as a counterweight so I don't walk in circles. Oh, and I aim left handed when I pee.

I understand the concept of depth perception - I've even experimented with closing one eye while I drive. It's remarkable how unnerving it can be to lose my sense of perspective. (No doubt other highway drivers are unsettled at my riding their bumpers while winking at them.) What's most disappointing is how my vision has compromised for softball. What used to be routine pop flies now look like highlights because I have to make ridiculous catches to make up for my poor reads.

Eerie moment: My co-worker just now told me she read an article on Fox News claiming "Blind Man Now Sees After Implementing Tooth in Eye." This, after I considered titling this "And a tooth for a tooth..." And it deals with vision.

It's like the not-really-deja-vu when I accurately predict the next artist to play on a radio station. I've done it a handful of times, and it's a freak coincidence. Or I'm a freak. Something or other like that.

All this to say: don't play baseball if archers or armed rednecks in the stands are waiting to shoot skeet with line drives. You're welcome.

Malaise or Mustard?

In my continual quest to drop thirty pounds, I'm learning my best hope may involve a chainsaw. Or I could take go shirtless and sprint top speed until I bellyflopped on pavement and sand myself down. Rock-hard abs? Skip the middle word and I've got it covered.

In a good week, I play basketball Tuesday and Thursday mornings at 6:00, work out at a gym (only because friends are there; I could never motivate myself to go solo) the other three weekday mornings, yoga (like golf, I'm not sure if you "play yoga" or what) once or twice on my lunch breaks, pace myself with a walking group during Friday lunches, run a couple games of ultimate frisbee Tuesday nights, field and bat with my work softball team, play 18-36 holes of disc golf, and chase my sons. Tack on pickup games of football, dodgeball, or whatever other sport falls in season. Add coaching a U4 soccer team. I should be one of the most coordinated, well-sculpted Adonisseses(es) this side of Greece. And yet... good weeks are so rare. (Partial credit also belongs to my diet - or lack thereof.)

How many calories does typing burn?

My Story (Whatever It May Be)

I decided to relegate my self-help and introspection posts to Mondays. And yet, as Trout Fishing in America (the Last Days of Pompeii) fiddles from my computer speakers, I realize what better place than this useless cyberwasteland to explore my story?

I have an idea I don't yet know. It deals with magic, youth, the Gospel, faith, imagination, hope, and predominantly fun. There are stems from John Piper's Desiring God: "The chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever." From Jim Henson to Dr. Seuss to Shel Silverstein. Movies like Big Fish and fairy tales reach into the realm of which I speak. Trout Fishing and They Might Be Giants touch upon it from time to time. It's in Scripture - the faith of a child, seeing things through a child's eyes - even with my quick on-line concordance, I didn't find the passage I wanted. (I sincerely hope that isn't like "Faith isn't faith until it's all you're holding on to" or "God helps those who help themselves." Bumper sticker theology sucks.) Jesus told the disciples to let the children come unto him, and that's kind of where I'm going.

My favorite Disney movie has always been Peter Pan, and it's because it's painfully sad. Wendy is one of the most tragic characters ever written. Responsibility clutches us as we grow/mature/marry/multiply. With each new burden, we lose the grasp and vision of some of what we had - the miracles of discovery, the jubilance in novelty, the belief in wishes...

Not that I want to relive my youth. I did it almost perfectly the first time around, and I can't help but think I'd screw it up if allowed a second run through.

But my story requires the magic of miracles and accepting the impossible. I don't know any of the characters, the setting, the situation, or even a line of dialog. What I know is when I finally write it, I'll know it. It may be agonizing surgery trying to transfer my ethereal sense of fun to the page, but it will be worth it.

Fun is crucial. I haven't yet located the passage where Jesus commanded us to have fun, but I'm still searching. If light is extinguished (as it so often is), nothing remains.