The words, they come hard today. I’ve wondered about writing, about the magic of it. Anyone reading this is capable of placing words on a page. Anyone that can read, can write, but not really. I can read Faulkner, Hemingway, or King (yes I put King in there, name one other author whose prose flows as naturally), but to write like them, to create the magic with a blank page they do, not many can claim that talent.

What kind of power is that? How do they do it?

Authors cannot tell you how they do what they do. Many believe the power of an author lies in imagination, I don’t think so. I can give you an idea right now, but it would turn to drill, or be useless to all but a few with the skill to transfer idea to page.

I started a novel one time, got about forty pages in and it just dried up. This story that seemed so alive, so effervescent, it left, fizzed out. All writing is that way. Some things gel, pages write themselves for stories that gel, the others, well I can write words, but their never the right words.

You’re waiting for the idea aren’t you? Here’s the deal, I’m going to purpose a contest. I’ll supply an idea, you write a short story, send it to me, if it’s any good I’ll sell it and make some money =). Just kiddin, I’m gonna put an idea I have out there, it’s thin, not much meat on it, but books have been written with less. See what you can come up with. I purpose the stories get posted up on the net, we’ll see how everyone did.

“Filing Cabinet” – a man buys a filing cabinet at a garage sale that contains old papers, pictures, a few cassette tapes. Among the papers are diagrams for inventions, blackmail photos, incriminating documents, state secrets, etc… There is a folder called “In” if he puts a name on a piece of paper and places it in the folder a new folder will appear with the vilest sins this person has ever committed. What happens when he puts his own name in the folder? Is there a folder called out, and what happens when he puts names in it? What happens when he puts events, or future dates? Where did the cabinet come from? Why does he feel darkness congregates around the room where the cabinet is?
(Post-Publish edit -- upon reviewing this idea it seems dime story trash. I've morphed it a little into something more real, I don't know if that's a good thing. I stand by what I said before; a true writer's power doesn't lie in imagination, but in language. Skilled hands may make more of this idea than I ever could.)

That’s it. Not much there, but to the best of my knowledge it’s original. I don’t remember reading or seeing anything close to that. See what you can come up with. If a short story materializes, email me.

I haven’t been at this very long, I don’t think I have very many readers; I’m hoping that there are maybe a few. I would like to see what others can come up with.

If you’ve read the StopAhead blog I mentioned earlier you should have seen an entry referring to people watching. Go read the entry then come back, I would like to give my take on the “interesting Sixty Surfer” my friend referred to.

So my friend and I we met at Starbucks, got some coffee, and a table outside. If you’ve read over her blog you may appreciate the intensity at which she can deconstruct people, I was a little nervous but disguised it with cough syrup (not on purpose btw). This is a hobby of hers, observing people, then speculating on their life, personalities, etc…

We were having a little fun observing people, then a man walked by that she noticed. When he walked back by she pointed him out.

The man had the look of an aged rock star. He wore a stage costume for wardrobe, his hair draped straight, and bleached white around his face. His weight and voice screamed a long struggle with chemical dependency.

He sat down behind us and joined a conversation we weren’t having, and we followed right along. He was a master smoker. He made love to his cigarette while we talked; he smoked it down to the filter, and then smoked the filter.

I watched him more than listened to him because what he was saying was such an obvious load of crap I felt I would need to flush if I listened to long.

My friend moved closer to the guy, engaging him in conversation. I have to admit I was a little annoyed. The guy was a bore. I don’t enjoy talking to someone who lies so often during a conversation that the strain of remembrance weighs on his face when you ask him a question.

She said later she thought he had a mental disorder (she deals with mentally unhealthy people for a living). I thought he was inventive, not crazy.

I wish we had gone and talked to another patron of Starbucks we saw walking in. He was an elderly gentleman, wore a three-piece suit, and in my mind I see a gold link chain attached to his vest to hold a pocket watch.

Given the chance, I prefer to talk to someone whose lies are at least subtle enough I need to work to find them.

That’s my take on the Rob Stewart wannabe. I tried to make cool while talking to the guy, attempted a feigned interest afterwards, the cough syrup couldn’t contain my distain though, and I think she saw it.

I watched Waking Life today. I know I’m a late comer to this film; I’ve been hearing about it for years but never gave it a chance.

If you haven’t seen the movie, it follows a guy around a series of dreams that contain existential theories, and philosophical questions. Question upon question presents itself to this guy and his response is admirable, he listens. I believe him to be the wise-man of the film.

Some may question me by labeling what the passive character of the piece as a wise-man. He has no theories; very little of what he adds is relevant. Well that may be true, but very little of what anyone has to say in the film is relevant.

There is gravity to the questions, but none of them contains relevance. Philosophy is fun, I enjoy listening to such discussions, but it’s doomed to remain in the land of the theoretical, it solves nothing, it answers nothing. “Where’s the milk” will always be a more relevant, and important than “Are we all just part of a dream?”

At some point in the film, I thought about the differences between philosophers and scientists. Scientists work on explaining the absolutes. They want concrete, proven answers, they want formulas. Philosophers work in areas where science cannot create formula or workable theory. Is this foolish? I don’t think so. Scientific knowledge is a temporary thing. If you want to write truth down don’t do it in the form of scientific law, the next scientific revolution will prove your law folly.

If you want to write truth, the closest you can come is writing about the human experience of here and now. A good philosopher would ask me to define truth for them. To them I would say that it’s something you have to define for yourself =) .