Last week, I gave blood. It’s something I try to do three or four times a year, since I’m not particularly squeamish about needles and I’m O negative. (You think the vampires in Twilight go nuts over Bella’s red cells? You oughta see a bunch of phlebotomists when they find out you’re a universal donor.)
Anyway, I digress. While my life force dripped out into a plastic bag, I kicked back, eyes closed, feet up, pleasantly drowsy, and amused myself by playing with my imaginary friends, working out a scene in my head. As I recall, it involved the phrase, “Race you naked.” Which was when the Red Cross volunteer popped by to ask if I was feeling okay.
Um, yeah. And thank the stars that sweet little old lady couldn’t read my mind.
Which got me thinking. How many of you have seen the movie What Women Want, where Mel Gibson can suddenly read women’s minds? As he’s walking down the street, in the mall, through his office, all these random thoughts are flying at him from every direction. And then I thought…
Imagine if he went to a writers’ conference.
There he goes, strolling through the convention center, minding his own business. Look, there’s a plump, sweet-faced woman in a flowered skirt and sensible shoes.
Hmm. I don’t know. Up against the wall seems awkward. Especially in a log cabin. Wouldn’t there be slivers?
Shocked, he veers away, down a hallway, where a sign declares that the class in session in on something called World Building. A tall brunette in the back row has her head tipped back, eyes closed, fingers tapping on the table.
Telepathic worms. The entire planet is crawling with them. And they have teeth, and of course they like eyeballs best…
He wheels around, looking wildly for an exit. These people are insane! He sees a petite blonde perched on a couch near the restrooms, scribbling in a notebook. Finally. Someone who can tell him how to get out of this asylum.
I’ve got it! She could stab him in the groin with her fork. That’d slow him down long enough for her to get to the switchblade in her boot so she can cut his…
He runs screaming from the building.
I know. Those are pretty mild compared to what really goes on inside a writer’s head. We don’t want anybody slapping that new XXX address on our blog, do we? But please, feel free to share what our poor hero would hear if he could take a peek into your head.
Yes, Julie, even the talking phallic mushrooms.