Maybe a blog is more serious like Beautiful Lengthy Ornate Gargoyles. If that's the case, I shouldn't be writing this at all I'm not into them.
If a blog is: Best Lies of Gwen, I can do that.
I never was good at keeping a journal; it takes too much time. But now I'm ready to tell the world about my thoughts. You better be scared, because my mind is really odd at times. What goes on inside my brain is absolutely not normal. You see, many times a twist is forming in my mind as you speak, just waiting to spring on you, reflecting what you just said.
Other times I am taking in everything that is being said and my brain is dripping like a wet dishrag, trying to wring another twist into whatever I'm writing. Nothing anybody says is sacred. It will find ways into some book I am writing.
That's how I get my characters for my stories. I take all of the odd pieces of people's personalities and put them with the odd pieces from other people into a blender and hit frappe. Together they make interesting characters that are not like anyone I know.That's how I came up with the ladies and other characters in my story, Don't Kill the Opera . None of those women is even a little like the ones in real life. They would have told me so, and I'd have been kicked out of my critique group. Instead they laughed and added ideas.
We play the game of "What If", taking characters several different ways.
What if Esmeralda had a short leg and that made her limp? What if she had two short legs? Wouldn't that just have made her short? Oh yeah. What if she likes to dance? What if she does? Is that a crime? No, just poetry in motion. Now twist that phrase. Poetry in emotion.
See? The What Ifs are what makes my mind run in odd bursts and spurts. So when I look at you and listen to you, my brain says, "But what if?" And the next thing that comes from my mouth is a bit odd. Sometimes you may actually wonder what if I was sane. Yes, perhaps, but I like to think that it's just that you have missed the thousand turns you ideas have made in my mind.
I won't get them perfected until they rattle around in my empty brain all night, turn upside down, bounce against a wall, and they come seeping back under the door into my writing the next day, or the next week.
When I pick up a pencil, my kids say, "Look out, you just got written into one of Mom's books."
So come back here next week and see what has seeped and bubbled up from my writing life. Until then, don't believe all the lies you hear.