To invent: a tool that will preserve my finger scribbles on the shower door and transfer them to my computer, all words intact rather than dripping down the glass, lost in the holes of my memory.
To invent: a clipboard that slips under my pillow and catches my dreams – words, sounds, images, sensations – then transcribes them to my work in progress without twisting them into gibberish fragments, convincing me they were nightmares all along.
To invent: a microphone that absorbs the sound of my voice as I hear it while singing in the shower and packages it in convenient download apps thus recording a modicum of talent in at least one area, instead of garbling the sound and convincing me I sound as bad as my family insists, shower acoustics or not.
To invent: an Exercycle that moves my body muscles and keeps me fit while drawing out my brain muscle into useful writing modes, so I can lose weight and look gorgeous for my back page photo on my newly published book. Don’t ask, book not in final form yet. Haven’t hired the photographer.
To invent: a mind reading tool that seizes escaping brain waves that would lodge in my head if I didn’t have to interact verbally with the people at the grocery store (please don’t overstuff the reusable bags because they tear – um, yeah, like that) the banker, (two hundred dollars, but as four twenties, six tens, eight fives, and all the rest ones, so I have some tip money handy) and the medical intake nurse (yep, I’ve gained a bit more weight, and no, I don’t want to go to the health center thirty miles away to learn to do what I know how to do but don’t want o do to improve my eating habits, can’t you please just give me a pill?) because in all that yakking time I’ve lost many wonderful and creative story lines.
To invent: one perfect logline that nails the essence of book number one in all its lyrical glory and erudite splendor and does so within the infinitely tiny and impossible parameters of logline requirements, (synopsis of story, important characters, fifty words or less, one or two sentences) therefore allowing me to move forward with other requirements for publishing my book.
Wait, I did that. I wrote the logline. It’s wonderful, succinct, and mesmerizing. It captured the flag.
Oh yeah, baby, you’re a writer now. Ba da bing, ba da bang.
Image: water drops courtesy: Google public domain images