I look Like a Panda when I cry (or: a weird post about tears and nothing in particular)

Yesterday I watched the season’s finale of The Good Place, and ugly cried until I resembled a panda.

The mascara of days before was smudged over my face, my eyes turned puffy, and I hugged my black and white panda cat to make the SAD feeling go away. In case you’re wondering why I’m writing this on my blog here’s a spoiler alert: I don’t know.

So know you know I look like a panda when I cry. The obvious reason for this is that I need to clean my face more and better, so make-up residues won’t get mixed up with tears. You also know TV/movies make me cry. Sometimes I think my tears dwell on the surface, grabbing every opportunity to get out. Maybe I haven’t cried enough over the years.

Now I wonder if tears turn sour. I also think of Snape and his last tears and now I kind of want to write a story about a tear stealer.

A sneak peek into three seconds of how my mind works. Kind of want to change the title again, but won’t because otherwise chances are I’ll wake up Pie (inner-editor) and she’ll delete this whole post.

Bye.

writers in the mist

Sometimes I feel a story buzzing in my mind, chasing thoughts, filling dreams. The story clouded in mist, unwilling to settle form and reveal itself. And I, the writer, find myself grasping the unknown, hoping to find solid ground to stand on. Eyes wide open, ready to snap the idea between my hands.

In the meantime I just write about the swirling colors of the mist, the smell that reminds me of a long forgotten dinner, the sense of hope and doom. I write my way around the mist, into it, underneath it. I write to find the story hidden in it’s core.

I write because that’s what writers do.

 

Car Conversations

Yesterday, I was in the car with two of my kids, when Jonah (boy, 7 years old), proclaimed he was going to be a writer. I smiled and told them I also have that dream since I was five.

Baukje (girl, 10 yrs old) was surprised and curious. So I reluctantly told them about stories I’ve written when I was their age (a never ending fairy tale about a magical flower and a series about a flying teabag. I know, I was a brilliant kid, haha).

I admitted it was still my dream and they were very interested in what I was writing now.

The conversation went something like this

Me: ‘It’s a story for teens about a girl that is half devil/half human. Her father is the devil (who’s retired for the time being) and her mother, well she’s a bit of a criminal. ‘

Jonah: ‘Cool’.

Me: (surprised they were still interested) ‘The girl protects the gate to hell which is in Paris and only has to do this for a couple of days, because she has done it for years. But then a terrorist starts bombing sites in the city.

Baukje: ‘Really?’ Does this really happen?”

Me: “No love, it’s just a story.’

Baukje: ‘Isn’t it too scary to write?’

Two things happened:

  1. Summarizing your story can do wonders for your understanding of it
  2. I realized children are the best. And I love them so much

 

bauk jo

(Jonah and Baukje being cute, standing on the Eiffel Tower).

 

Decorating the Box

Thinking outside the box is often considered a valuable quality. But what do people mean when they say it? Is the box your comfort zone? Is it shared with people who happen to have the same box? The same boundaries? Is it said when someone thinks of something you haven’t thought of?

And what does it mean when people live like there is no box?

I don’t get it.

Or better said: I don’t get why it’s important.

People are who they are, and become who they become. Could be because there are limits to their intelligence, or because they chose to. Could be because they’ve been listening to others all their lives. Could be because they don’t care.

If I’d had a box, it would fit me like a second skin. I could step inside, or outside. I would compare it to the boxes of others. And I would decorate it with pink flowery wallpaper and call him Sam.

Because Sam is a cool name for a box.

Sorry for the rambling.