Two old women were visiting. “Do you believe in the Hereafter?” one asked.
“You bet I do,” the other replied. “Usually when I get to the bottom of the stairs, I think Now what did I come down here after?”
My memory isn’t what it used to be, and Hubby says it’s because I spend more time thinking about characters and plots than reality. And he’s probably right (shh, don’t tell him I said that). Often when I get to the bottom of the stairs, I run back up because: A) I just figured out the perfect wording for a sentence and must get it down before it slips away, or B) I hope returning to my point of origin will remind me why I left the office in the first place.
At least a bad memory gives me an aerobic workout.
Back when I was in high school and taking every English class they had to offer, the teacher was aware of my writing aspirations. During our study of various authors, we noticed a trend: It seemed they were all alcoholics, adulterers, or wound up committing suicide. She wryly observed, “It’s looking like writers have mental problems!”
(Or she said something to that effect. I don’t remember the exact words….)
So while you don’t have to be a boozehound skipping out on your spouse and contemplating how to end it all, a little mental irregularity probably does help with being a writer. If I’m forgetful because I’m trying to wrap my head around how magnetoplasmadynamic (that’s a real word, folks) thrusters work, so be it.
So now that I’ve posted this blog I’ve almost forgot about, it’s time to go downstairs and … do something….
Now what did I come down here after?