A Writer’s Brain
|What a life!|
I’ve always believed I think differently than others. I’ve always ignored it, because isn’t that how a teenager thinks? “No one understands me! I’m different from everyone else.” I thought it’s a rather immature attitude to have and tried to block the thought. But what if it’s true? What if my mind thinks differently to others.
What if I have a writer’s brain?
I’ve been on a personal journey for three years now. It started in January 2013 when I finally gave into the inner urging I had and decided to see if I could write a novel. It’s culminated with me being able to say now, “I’m an author.” I’ve allowed my inner freak to fly – and it’s amazing.
It’s also scary.
Today I write to you from a little town south of Perth called Busselton. A town steeped in history, being built on the coast and growing around the shipping trade. Busselton boasts the longest wooden jetty in the Southern Hemisphere.
It’s a great holiday spot. The summer temperatures are about 3-5 degrees cooler than the city, there’s plenty of swimming and fishing, and if you venture to the surrounding towns, you can visit wineries, ice cream factories, fudge factories, candy factories and more. There are bushwalks, caves, and coasts to explore.
It’s a wonderful holiday… but the writer brain doesn’t turn off.
Recently Western Australia experienced a devastating bushfire. Two people lost their lives. The fire took out an entire town – burning over 140 houses to the ground. We had to drive through the middle of the western part of where the fire burned. Going through this region, the thought that continuously rotated through my head was “Oh wow – look at that!” But another part of my brain was clicking over.
|Results of the bushfire|
“How would you feel if your boyfriend was a volunteer firefighter and you were both in the closet, so you couldn’t get information about whether he was okay with arousing suspicions?”
“What if you lost everything in the fire, and then the guy you’ve been crushing on for ages steps in with a helping hand?”
Once at our destination, the thoughts never stopped. We headed down to see sunset at the beach.
“Look at that group of 8 young men. They look about seventeen years old. What are the odds that one of them is gay or at least questioning? What if he has a crush on his best mate? Would his friends accept him?”
|Fishing at sunset|
“Look at those two men fishing. What if they’ve been a couple for years, and this is now their life? Living in Busselton. Fishing every evening while sharing a beer. What could tear them apart and rock such a happy couple?”
“Listen to that South African accent. What if you fell hard for the guy visiting your town, and you knew there was nothing in it, because he had to go home sooner or later?”
The next morning we headed out to the Busselton Jetty.
“Oh, man. Look at that guy. He’s gorgeous… I could write a whole story just from the inspiration of him.”
“Look at those men. They have triplets. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if they were a couple and those boys are their surrogate-born sons? They’re probably just good friends out together with one of the men’s triplets. But actually they do look… huh.”
“There’s a motorcycle club that’s just rocked up. What if you’re a small town nerd with desires and wishes, and then a rough, tough biker comes into your town and really shows you how they party in the city?”
Then I had coffee with lovely Kathy (**waves to Kathy**) and more thoughts.
“I could totally write that guy serving coffee into a book. He’s cute. Look at his cut off jeans. I wonder if he did them himself? A fashion queen serving coffee in a small town coffee lounge.”
|Pike at the Observatory|
“Why is that guy sitting alone in the corner? He has a brooding quality about him. I could totally write him into a book too…”
“Aww, look at that elderly gentleman taking care of his wheelchair-bound wife. I hope when all my guys are that old that they’re still so much in love.”
So you may say that a writer is never on holiday. And that a holiday is a wonderful source of information and inspiration for when a writer is not on holiday. Paradox much?
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