Silencing the spoiler voice

We all have one. We have that little overexcited person inside our minds who is quick to tell the world about what we have seen or heard. Whether it is a movie or a sporting event, we want to tell someone about the harrowing details even if the other person has Tivo’ed the scene and wants to watch it at their own leisure.

I have a plot spoiler voice.

Deep within the murky depths of my subconsciousness sits a tiny woman in a tiny room holding a gigantic bullhorn. She watches and waits as my typing fingers get to a juicy part. Then she flicks on the bullhorn switch with a hiss of annoying static to draw my attention. She shouts, “Hey, Michelle! You want to know what is about to happen. I know! I know!”

*shudder* I don’t want to know.

I used to be a plotter. I used to outline my stories because I thought this would allow me to write faster if I knew what was happening at every point. Unfortunately, I found out I procrastinate IMMENSELY when I do this. My mind grows bored with knowing the obvious as it says, “Yanno, why can’t someone invent a machine that will make the words appear right on the screen without having to type anything in: from brain to page? That would be so great.”

And I respond to my mind, “Yeah, and it would also be great if I had a machine that could transform inanimate objects into hot buttered pretzels at my whim. But that’s not going to happen either.”

Anyway, the reality is that I type faster (and enjoy my writing more) when I don’t know what is going to happen. I write by the seat of my pants (even as I type this post), almost as if I am challenging my subconsciousness to surprise the rest of me. Surprise me, nether regions of the mind where I darest not tread! Spillage your innards so that I might gasp in virgin shock!

Hee-hee!

Ahem. So when the tiny woman in the tiny room grabs her bullhorn, I look away from the computer screen. I go, “Oh look, tiny woman. Is that a tiny man trudging his way through the snowy fields of the imagination department? He appears awfully lonely, and you must have a lot of time on your hands to annoy me with spoiler updates. Why don’t the two of you get the wild thang on in the back closet where all my guilty pleasures hide?”

And while I am saying this, my fingers keep typing to jot down those marvelous ideas that do make me gasp. When I turn back to the screen, my eyes reread the section 2 million times trying to figure out just how twisted my thoughts really are. Then I snicker and wince as the tiny woman returns completely flustered by the ruse and smacking the bullhorn into the empty conscience desk wondering where the slackers are who allowed me to lie to her.

Ah . . . I have fun with my mind when typing out the unknown.