Games Writers Play

Oldest Daughter and I watched The Wonder Boys on Saturday night. It is one of my all-time favorite movies, from Robert Downey Jr. arriving with a transvestite who plays the tuba to Tobey Maguire's brilliant performance. And of course, that it is about writers and editors makes it all the more fun.

And one of my favorite scenes is when Grady (Michael Douglas's writer/professor character)and his agent play a game inside a bar. They see a man who looks a bit like James Brown in a quirky sort of way, and begin inventing this history for him. "He's a former boxer who got that scar on his nose from a prize fight, and his name is Vernon, and he went to prison and . . ." and soon they have invented this colorful life for a man named Vernon (except his name isn't Vernon and he's none of those things).

I realized, watching it Saturday, that I do the same thing. I fill in the blanks on lives in airports and coffee shops. I meet people and imagine what their marriages are like or what keeps them awake at two a.m. If I see them line up their sugar packets neatly before tearing them and putting them in their coffee, I imagine perfectly arranged sock drawers and anal-retentive checkbook balancing and cupboards that are alphabetized.

I don't gossip. I don't take these imaginary filled-in lives and repeat them. I know it's all in my writer-mind. But I constantly fill in the blanks. I imagine full lives all around me.

I play games in my head. All the time.

So what games do you play?

Overactive Imagination

So today, Lydia the Python, who lives in my son's bedroom, came out from under her rock cave, and poked her head up to the lid of her tank. As if she was trying to escape. The tank is locked. But nonetheless, I took one look at this and said, "Lydia's got to go." Which was greeted by protests by my family, all of whom love Lydia for some ridiculous reason that I cannot yet fathom.

Now, to be clear, Lydia is a ball python. Her head is smaller than my thumb. They are docile snakes, perfect for "first-time" snake owners. She will max out at about 3.5-4.5 feet. And she absolutely FREAKS ME OUT. I envision her escaping, slithering to my bed, wrapping around my neck, and killing me in my sleep. I cannot be any clearer about how much I HATE THIS SNAKE. But my son is the kid in the family who never, and I mean never, asks for anything. This totally mellow math genius . . . so when he asked for a snake, I said okay. There was a small amount of begging involved. But when we got Lydia . . . she was the size of a pencil. Now? She is the size of my son's ARM!

Little did I realize how this is NOT the pet for a writer. Not the pet for someone with an overactive imagination.

Because that's my brain. On hyperdrive all the time. It's not enough to think, "The snake might escape one day." No, I have to go to some Anaconda-esque horror movie scenario. Like going from 0 to 50 in 1.3 seconds. That's my brain.

I think the creepy man up the street with the too-clean porch, without ANY adornment, neat as a pin house . . . he's a serial killer. He peeks out from behind his curtains. I KNOW it. He's got livers chillin' in his fridge.

It's like a profession, making this stuff up. Oh . . . yeah . . . I'm a writer. That's what I do.

So how about you? Any scenarios that run through your mind? And anyone want a free python?