The Big Idea

Nice rouge.

I few years ago, I discovered my personal muse.  That is a tad corny, I know, but it really is the truth.  If a muse is the thing that keeps you coming back to the creative process, the thing that makes you chip away again and again to make something with your own two hands in the hopes it will explain some secret of life to you, than I found it.  I have been chasing the big idea. 

Some time ago, I understood I was not a fixer.  I was a maker.  I am no engineer, I am an inventor.  The lines are blurrier than that of course: I actually am very good at organization and streamlining processes, but that is not the thing that gets me excited.  When you first sense that big idea, you understand that it truly is not yours.  Something else inspired you.  For writing types, it is a book or a movie or a TV show.  You see something that could have been better, or something absolutely wonderful that you wish you created.  It is a reactionary feeling.  A few tweaks, and this could have been perfection.  Later, if you are lucky, something brings you back.  You keep thinking about it and chewing on it like the inside of your cheek. It is a big idea.  It is your idea.  You can barely see what it is, but there is a kernel of it bouncing around your brain, and you can’t let it go. For me, I reach a tipping point.  I have dozens of initial ideas that scatter to the winds because they had no roots firmly planted.  A rare few sit awhile.  They invite a few more thoughts and now it’s a paragraph of a plot outline or an interesting take on some damn thing.  Now, I have to write all this down.  If I’m lucky, it is only the beginning.  The details begin pouring out of me.

I think I had about five of those big ideas in twenty years.  The rest were smaller, or half-baked.  A lot of these smaller ideas were activities, like my podcast, which was just an excuse to think of more ideas.  The essay-thing you are reading right now is just a mining expedition for more ideas.

In 2006, I had a crap job and lot of time on my hands.  Most of the people around me traveled down internet rabbit holes.  I, on the other hand, was hand writing a novel like a maniac and transferring it to my computer when I went home.  (If I was allowed to use a Word program at work, I would have.) This big idea started years before with my obsession with stand-up comedy.  I thought a story about a guy in my situation would be interesting.  Married with kids, but still wants to sneak out and be funny. There was something there.  Then I saw the film V for Vendetta, and unbeknownst to me, an idea began to crystallize.  A guy is alone and wants to sneak out and be funny, but instead creates monologue type diatribes. They weren’t jokes, they were speeches.  Oratory, like Lincoln and Douglas.  He has a natural talent for speaking, like stump speeches or public square meetings.  He gets a little following downtown, and then a local band asks him if he want to open up for them on the road.  He becomes famous for speaking; but he has no financial or political stake in what he is saying.  He is speaking a truth without asking for anything in return.  And then some stuff happens.

I went insane, 1500 words a day for a few months.  I wrote it and rewrote it.  By the time it was done, I had to start paying attention at work.  I had my second novel, and it was one that I wasn’t ashamed to let people read.  Didn’t matter. It was a big idea.

The point is not the finished book.  It was that idea.  That idea grows and grows and changes and wraps you up like a blanket and charges you more than 10,000 Red Bulls.  It is the reason you get out of bed and turn on your brain.  It is intoxicating and fun and how creativity is supposed to feel.  My book could be a pile of shit.  I may very well suck as a writer and lack any talent that could make anyone want to pay me.  As long as I have the idea, I really do not care.  Truly.

I remember Stephen King said the idea for Pet Sematary came when he was crossing a road near his house. By the time he reached the other side, he had it. Vonnegut started to write about his WWII experiences and the next thing he knew he was in outer space. Jo Rowling came up with Harry Potter during a train ride.  I wrote an essay about mental illness a few months ago and the idea came to me in the car on my way back from running an errand.  It just popped in there.  Those guys received a shit-ton of money for their ideas, but I bet the feeling of that Big Idea outweighed the feeling of the big checks.  (Can’t I at least pretend that could be true?)

 I search for the core idea in everything I ingest.  What is the premise? What is the struggle?  How am I supposed to feel?  There is a style here that is setting a mood.  My feelings have been manipulated.  Where did that idea come from?  When my ideas bubble up, they sometimes feel like memories I can just barely recollect.  I see a brief scene, or sense two smaller ideas trying to connect to one another.  It is attempting to come alive. 

I’ll end on this.  One thing I never do is admit that I am out of ideas.  There are periods in my life when I feel I am fresh out. I have exhausted the tank.  But I never fear the well running dry.  Maybe that is the reason I get new ideas.  That belief is at the center of whatever creative juices I possess.  There certainly is no money or attention in the ideas; it is just an itch that I absolutely love to scratch.