Being Weird

Ideas are pictures. They flash through my brain, in color, instantly.

Sometimes they're a single frame, and sometimes they're more like a quirky, saturated short film shot in Super 8.

A good idea makes me tingle. And then I have to talk about it so I can figure it out all the way.

Some ideas don't work on their own, or they're too early for their own good. But I keep them around anyway, because they worm their way right into another idea later.

I hang out with good listeners so I can bounce the pictures I see in my head up and down and sideways like a super ball in a small room with a hardwood floor. The ideas hit walls and lamps sometimes, but nothing ever breaks. Usually.

And then I just start trying stuff. If people say "how did you come up with this crazy idea?" I try to tell them the story of how 20 years ago I had this one idea that worked it's way into this other idea, and eventually this idea right here became an obvious next thing to try.

But they look at me with glazed eyes and half a smile and say "Oh." Which actually means "You're weird."

As if I didn't know.