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Students scurried across the large grassy area of campus. It was a hot, October day, and anyone fortunate enough not to have a class lay on the grass, some on blankets, some propping their heads on backpacks. They were surrounded by a protective layer of trees and academic buildings. The air was filled with potential and youthfulness and optimism.

One boy in particular, walking from one of the larger brick buildings towards Old Main, glanced discreetly over his shoulder at the girl, also walking slowly, about thirty yards behind him. They had five classes together, but had never spoken. He walked slower, waiting for her to catch up.

Then he noticed that she had slowed down. So he pretended to stop and tie his shoe. She slowed down even more. Finally he stood up and turned toward her.

“Hi.”

* * * * *

Four years later the boy and girl take a train from London to Paris. They leave early in the morning, when London is still quiet and dark. The train speeds across the English country side, grabbing hedgerows and pastures and even small villages and casting them back. Then darkness as the train disappears under the channel.

France emerges, feeling older and a little less friendly. The boy and girl do not speak the language. They wander the city, following a red line in a magazine to mostly small, out of the way shops. The Basilica of the Sacred Heart rises into the gray sky. Notre Dame sits patiently, waiting for another time in future history, when it will no longer be bothered by irreverent shouting and pesky strangers.

The boy and girl hold hands, walking through the rain, their shoulders pulled up towards their ears. A cab whisks them back to la Gare du Nord. The seats in the train are not good for sleeping – too straight, too rigid, but somehow the girl drifts off, her head on the boy’s shoulder.

* * * * *

One year after their first trip to Paris, five years after the boy stopped and pretended to tie his shoe on that grassy patch on campus, the boy and girl enter Paris again. This time by plane. This time they have a little boy with them, not yet one. He looks exactly like the girl, with blue eyes and a soft nose and a round face.

They stay two nights, but everyone gets sick. The boy spends the weekend finding medicine for the little boy. The girl spends the weekend in the motel bathroom, washing the little boy’s clothes which are covered in diarrhea.

During daylight hours the three emerge, pale and weak. They walk quietly through the Louvre, not out of respect, but because they are too tired to talk.

They consider going home early, but decide to stay. The French air is crisp and refreshing. They don’t want to go back to the motel. They wander the streets until the lights turn on and the waitress at the cafe takes their order. The city lights reflect off of the Seine.

* * * * *

Twelve years after the boy stopped to tie his shoe, eight years after their first trip to Paris, seven years after their second trip to Paris, they now live in Virginia. The boy stands at the kitchen counter. The girl leans against the wall.

They have run out of money.

Upstairs they can hear the little boy playing with two little girls. All three children look exactly like the girl. A baby boy, fresh to the world, sleeps in a baby swing.

“Now what?” the boy asks the girl.

* * * * *

The story continues HERE

Believe it or not, Dumb and Dumber had more to offer than a couple of rad bowl cuts (speaking of which, I hope you caught the excellent “Bowlin'” video featuring Chris Tomlin, Tyler Stanton and Tripp Crosby).

If you can get past the scenes of frozen snot, exploding farts and of course the most annoying sound in the world, there are a few gems hidden in there, things that every writer needs to pick up on. 17 years later, here is what I remember:

1) Always keep your reader guessing. Lloyd trades in their awesome doggy-mobile for a moped. He pulls up beside Harry, who is walking along a deserted highway. Harry sees the moped, and you’re waiting for him to go off on Lloyd. But they kept me guessing:

“Just when I thought you couldn’t possibly be any dumber, you go and do something like this… and totally redeem yourself!”

2) 3rd Person Omniscient can be a fun point-of-view to write from because your reader knows more than your characters, and you can use this to your advantage. For example, when a thug sneaks into Harry and Lloyd’s apartment and cuts off the head of their parakeet, we know it’s a reference to the horse’s head in The Godfather…but Lloyd sees it as just another piece of bad luck:

“We got no food, no jobs… our PETS’ HEADS ARE FALLING OFF!”

3) As I mentioned in Five Writing Lessons I Learned From Napoleon Dynamite, creative dialogue can help your reader learn more about your characters, as well as inject some humor:

“Yeah I called her up. She gave me a bunch of crap about me not listening to her, or something. I don’t know, I wasn’t really paying attention.”

4) Flannery O’Connor said that anyone who survived childhood has enough material to write for the rest of his or her life (via Anne Lamott). And this exchange in Dumb and Dumber proves it:

Lloyd: You’re it.
Harry: You’re it.
Lloyd: You’re it, quitsies!
Harry: Anti-quitsies, you’re it, quitsies, no anti-quitsies, no startsies!
Lloyd: You can’t do that!
Harry: Can too!
Lloyd: Cannot, stamp it!
Harry: Can too, double stamp it, no erasies!
Lloyd: Cannot, triple stamp, no erasies, Touch blue make it true.
Harry: No, you can’t do that… you can’t triple stamp a double stamp, you can’t triple stamp a double stamp! Lloyd!
Lloyd: [hands over ears] LA LA LA LA LA LA!
Harry: LLOYD! LLOYD! LLOYD!

5) Sometimes, if you’re story is going no where, try flipping it on its head. Like this awesome trailer, where Dumb and Dumber becomes Inception:

What were your favorite scenes from Dumb and Dumber?

I think we are born to imagine, born to dream. Before my kids ever learned to talk, they were climbing in boxes and trying to drive them away, dancing to music no one else could hear, and wanting me to pretend to be a monster. One of the coolest things about kids is that this propensity to imagine always ends in creation. Their unfettered thoughts and dreams lead to new things, tangible things.

We are wired to create.

And, for a while, this creation happens. Imaginary battles lead to the transformation of sticks into light sabers, trees into giants and the spray of mist whipped up by a spring breeze becomes an angel.

For some reason, though, we stop creating. Madeleine L’Engle, in her book “Walking on Water,” quotes a statistic that at the age of five, 90% of the population measures “high creativity.” By the age of seven, the figure has dropped to 10%.  And the percentage of adults with high creativity is only 2%!

Most adults I know have lots of ideas. But when it actually comes to doing something about it? Not so much. Sure, they make stuff at work, they write proposals that bore them to tears, they join committees and attend meetings and put together memos. But the stuff they dream about, the stuff they want to create, gets trampled by the to-do list separating them from that next raise.

* * * * *

I’ve personally come across hundreds of people with a book idea, but only a dozen or so who ever followed through and started writing. And of those who started, I only personally know a few who have ever finished.

I’m sure the same can be said of painters, entrepreneurs, photographers, builders, actors, preachers, professors…the list goes on. Everyone has a dream, an idea, a thought, but how many of us have followed through?

How many haven’t just imagined, but created?

* * * * *

But I thought we just established the fact that we are, from a very early age, wired to create? What happens to an earthload of people who are wired to do something, have the inclination to do it, but, for whatever reason, never do it?

Frustration.

Anger.

Boredom.

Feelings of entitlement.

Depression.

Despair.

Suicide.

* * * * *

I’m not saying that the physical act of creation would alleviate all of the aforementioned things. But I do know some people who claim that their writing saved their life. I’ve seen folks, whose lives have been shattered by death or broken relationships, salvage the remains by creating art, or starting a business, or pulling together a charitable organization.

What would you create, if you let yourself return to a state of high-creativity?

How has creativity healed or freed you?

A huge thanks to Alise Wright for today’s guest post. She’s a self-proclaimed lover of coffee, texting, and Zelda. You can find her blog at http://www.alise-write.com/, or follow her on Twitter: @BigMama247. Enjoy!

Blank page, blinking cursor.

That’s what writing looks like for me on most days.

In the past, it was a ratty spiral bound notebook, a pretty, flowery journal, a green composition notebook, the back of music theory homework. Anything I could find to get my thoughts down. It didn’t matter if it was private or public, I’ve just always enjoyed writing. I believe that writing has played a part in shaping me into the person that I am today.

When I write and write honestly, I get the bad stuff out. Maybe that’s not the most attractive thing in the world, but I find writing to be therapeutic. When I bury what’s going on in my brain, I end up turning it over and over and that creates a not-very-pleasant person to be around. But when I write it out, I find that it cleanses me in a way that no other method does. Talking through difficult issues can help, but writing it down gives me the perspective that I need.

What is really fascinating to me is that when I write this bad stuff out, it gives permission for others to share some of their difficulties. That helps me to step outside of myself for a little bit and consider others. I’m naturally a very selfish person and writing can certainly feed that, but on good days, it causes me to look beyond my own issues and care more deeply for the people around me, both in my face to face interactions and with those in my virtual village.

I have also found that writing has helped me connect with people that I may not have had the opportunity to otherwise. I’ve met people who are like me, people who are different from me, and these interactions have all pointed to show me that I’m not alone – that no one is alone. Writing is a fascinating paradox. I do most of it for me, but it gains so much more meaning when there is a community of readers. Any time I have the opportunity to connect with other people through my writing, it makes me a better person.

Writing has taught me to choose my words more carefully. When I’m talking, I have the benefit of body language, tone, inflection, physical contact, and real-time clarification. When I write, I have one chance to get it right. I can always go back and edit and I can certainly carry on a dialogue once the piece is out there, but as we all know, once something is written, it has an element of permanence. This means that I need to be thoughtful when I’m writing. As I have done this, I have found that it carries over into my regular conversations. Writing has helped me become a more effective verbal communicator.

The only way I can truly gauge if I’m becoming a better person is through interactions with other people. I find that writing helps me to engage with more people and that in turn helps me become a better version of me.

And now, the blank page and blinking cursor beckon.

Recently, at 8 Weeks in the Red, we’ve been trying some alternatives to church as usual.

This week, we spent about fifteen minutes meditating silently on a portion of Psalm 143:

I remembered the old days, went over all you’ve done, pondered the ways you’ve worked,  Stretched out my hands to you, as thirsty for you as a desert thirsty for rain.  Hurry with your answer, God! I’m nearly at the end of my rope. Don’t turn away; don’t ignore me! That would be certain death.  If you wake me each morning with the sound of your loving voice, I’ll go to sleep each night trusting in you. Point out the road I must travel; I’m all ears, all eyes before you.

We sat there quietly, eyes closed, hands in a fist in front of us. In my tightly squeezed hand was something I knew I needed to give up. And as the verse was read to us again, we all opened our hands.

Release.

* * * * *

We took some time to hear from one of the men in the group. He shared his experience of hitting midlife and realizing there were areas of pain he had never adequately worked through. In fact, when these pains surfaced at different times in his life, he managed to go around, and never through.

“Healing,” he said, “requires going through the pain. Not around it.”

I listened to him, thought about how many times in my own life that I had dug a nice hole in the dirt and buried my pain, my questions, my doubt.

* * * * *

Robert had posted on our Facebook page that week:

What is unique about the Christian God and emotional pain is that the pain has somewhere to go – not just out to a person, or a group, good as that is, but into the cross, into the Christ of the cross. The Gospel makes a provision for the processing of emotional pain through a suffering savior – When you see Jesus dying on the cross to receive your pain you realize that your pain has a destination – it has a place to go, does not need to be held on to because there is someone who knows what it is, what it feels like, and suffered the ultimate pain of the cross so that we can experience freedom.

I thought this was an interesting take on Christianity.

And it made me wonder some things:

What were your “old days” like? What road lies before you? What do you need to release in order to move forward?

Christian or not, what practices have you found helpful for processing emotional pain and finding healing? Maybe by sharing your process you can help someone else who is reading the blog today.

About once a month Bryan Allain and I grab breakfast at this little restaurant called Country Gardens. Bryan generally orders something healthy (which I often predict, correctly, on Twitter), while I tend to stick with the artery-blocking, stint-inducing options such as creamed dried beef on toast or eggs and scrapple.

It’s always fun, catching up with another writer, stealing his ideas, talking through some of my own challenges. Something Bryan said this morning grabbed my attention.

Who are you burdened for?

In other words, what specific types of people do you feel directed to pour your life into?

Many people become teachers because they feel burdened for kids. Many people become marriage counselors because they feel burdened for couples going through rough times. Many people become circus clowns because they want to scare little children.

I’m starting to realize that I have a burden for people who have a story but can’t tell it themselves.

Maybe, just maybe, if you have trouble finding purpose in life, it’s because you’re not taking time to help the people for whom you feel the greatest burden.

Who are you burdened for? What are you doing to help lighten their load?