On creative disasters….

The other day, my creativity came up in conversation with my husband. We’re both rather creative people, to be honest. He’s written several books and has come up with no less than three different universes for those books. It’s pretty amazing. I’m looking forward to hearing the stories he comes up with to tell our kids at bedtime (because, sorry honey…A Game of Thrones is NOT, I repeat, NOT an acceptable bedtime story for a toddler). He has a wonderful imagination and I never tire of reading his stories (especially the “love stories” that he writes when I ask him to).
My creativity lies in a different type of story-telling and even more in the ability to envision events and see them through to completion. Todd is forever going on and on about how he thinks I’m a great writer and that I should put that to use in the vein of story-telling. I’m not quite sure where he gets that idea. I tried writing a story once and it was kind of an epic fail. I’ve actually written a number of stories, all of them for one class or another. Fiction is a beast to write, no lie. It’s not my favorite thing to do by a long shot. My best story-telling comes when I’m simply re-telling a story that’s already happened (that, I can write some damn fine poetry).
My family is a huge mess of hilarious stories. I will never tire of telling stories of my dad’s many (MANY) home-improvement injuries or my brother’s travels or my sister’s inability to distinguish Queen from Def Leppard or my mom’s many years of teaching (and her inexplicable punch-dancing when I sing the “Team America” theme song). I guess if I wanted to write a book, something Todd is really itching for me to do, it would be something of a memoir based on my family. The problem there is the problem that comes with many memoirs: no one really cares (except maybe for the people mentioned in them).
My own life story is what can only be described as “beautiful disaster.” Seriously. There are so many points in my life that make me think, “Well, that wasn’t bright, was it?” or “How am I still alive?” or “What possessed me to think THAT was a good idea?” Those are really some of the funniest parts, even if they involve me admitting my own stupidity.
I doubt I’ll ever write a book, much less one about my family, but if you’re ever in the market for a good story, especially one that involves injury and mayhem, then I’m your girl.

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