Catch Your Hare

I posted this on a thread on Story Games and it’s not bad, I think.

Tips for being creative.

1. Stop trying to be creative. Just say the obvious thing: when framing a scene, frame the “obvious” scene that would come next; when thinking of goals, use the “obvious” goal for your character. The trick here is: what’s obvious to you seems brilliantly creative to everyone else.

(Don’t discount this too quickly. It’s really powerful.)

2. Use random things to inspire you. I love the way Zombie Cinema uses random cards to create your character: I’ve grabbed my copy, while writing this post, and drawn “Family”, “Lust or Greed” and “Useless?”. From those, I instantly know who my character is (he’s a fat philandering middle-manager with a family that bores him).

 You could use random things too: Tarot cards, perhaps. Or pick a random word from a book to inspire a character’s goal. Or look around the room (”Right, this character’s goal is going to be something about a vase. What the hell…? Oh, wait, it’s a family heirloom…”).

 (This links into being obvious. If you pick three random things, you’ll instantly have an idea, and that idea is the one to go with).

3. While playing the game, pretend you’re a more creative person. Pretend you’re a brilliant storyteller who waves their hands and has astonishing ideas.(Don’t discount this one either.)

4. Change something in the environment. Often, we play sitting at a dining table with the lights fully on, making everything feel businesslike. If you change things, you’ll change the game: play by candlelight and you’ll become philosophical and emotional; play in a hottub and you’ll laugh more. Change something: what’s on the table, the way you’re dressed, the lighting, the chairs, anything.

5. Warm up. When I did improv, we used to walk around the room, pointing at things and yelling out the wrong names. I wouldn’t necessarily suggest this, but do something to put you in the right frame of mind. If you started your session with a game of Jungle Speed, the game after would be completely different.

One interesting fact, by the way, is that I drove over 4000 miles. I think the actual figure was 4200 and something.

It was fun, but I think my next holiday will be staticker. Staticer. You know. Will involve less movement.

Graham 

Like a moron, I had arranged to return my car the day before my flight. I have no idea why. This left me with a dull night to spend at JFK airport. Hotels were astonishingly pricey ($200 upwards), so I settled on the JFK Inn, a cheap motel.

It was cheap in the sense Motel 6 was cheap: clean, with good facilities, but a little seedy. There was, of course, nothing of interest nearby, so I passed the evening by having two baths and watching CNN.

I also ordered a Chinese meal. When it arrived, I accidentally undertipped the delivery guy, and he queried this. I gave him a little more. “A dollar?” he said, stepping towards me and peering at where I’d stacked my change.

It was an awkward situation. I hadn’t tipped him enough, but wasn’t going to be intimidated into giving him more. I refused; he left angrily; and I worried, for the rest of the night, about him returning with vengeful friends. “You tip me a dollar? How much you tip me now?”

The next morning, my wake-up call came at 3am. I shaved (my new theory is that, if I look better, I feel more awake) and dressed. Out into the foyer, where I drank some of the permanently ready coffee and talked to a pleasant girl who liked my accent. It occurred to me that the previous evening would have been much more pleasant if we’d met then.

The shuttle to the airport arrived. After unloading my bag, the driver opened his arms, palms upwards, in a “So, am I getting a tip?” gesture. This struck me as much more agreeable than the method used by the delivery man. I’m not sure why. Perhaps any human contact at 3am seems polite.

I’d arrived stupidly early, as I always do for flights. There were four hours before take-off. I checked in, but my bag was overweight: the attendant insisted I transfer some books to my carry-on bag. For the rest of the day, that bag was so heavy that I needed to carry it in front of me with both hands.

Already highly caffeinated, I decided not to drink more coffee, and slept for an hour or so.

The date was September 11th, which meant the flight was beautifully empty. I stretched out across three seats and slept, then read a psychology book I’d bought. The flight flashed by and I arrived in Heathrow.

I’m now sitting back at home, typing this, and recovering from jetlag. So far, the jetlag is bad: I slept from 8am to 4pm today. It’s now nearly 4am. It’s probably time for bed.

On the way back to JFK, I stopped at a mall in MA to buy glasses: as in spectacles, which are much cheaper over here, even accounting for the eye test. I got two pairs: a standard black work pair plus an ostentatious shiny blue pair. Experience suggests I’ll wear one and avoid the other and that it’s impossible to predict which in advance.

With time to kill, I stopped into Target to investigate a three-piece suit I’d liked. After a heartbreaking moment in which I thought they hadn’t got the waistcoat in my size, I found it misfiled, and bought the suit. Realising the shirts were incredibly cheap when priced in pounds, I bought some of them, too,  throwing them over my arm without trying them on.

With more time to kill, I bought shoes in Macy’s. Despite the huge amount of money I was spending, it’s better to stock up in the States.

Finally, I stopped into Borders for something light to read on the flight. In the reduced section, I found a book by Neal Boortz, the right-wing talk show host who had kept me company driving around the South. It seemed a good buy.

Then it was back to JFK and a sad goodbye to my little car.