Tale of the Tiggre | By: Liilia Morrison | | Category: Short Story - Biography Bookmark and Share

Tale of the Tiggre

Tigger, tiggr, tiger. Those names have all been used already. Hope tiggre has not, since I plan to use it in the title of this little tale. It's nice to be just a little bit different, although not too, too. 

My writing often starts with the tail of the tiggre. This sounds odd, but everyone knows tigers are real and they usually have a tale, I mean tail. I've never seen a unicorn, a Loch Ness monster or even a space alien. So my creative ideas stick pretty much to what I actually know exists. It's too uncomfortable for me to stretch the imagination to other levels of reality, although I'm sure it can be a lot of fun for some people. I'm afraid to let go of the thread that the writing balloon is attached to, the thread that so many fantastic talented people let go of and just soar above the clouds. It's great to see, but my mind can't get off the solid ground, figuratively speaking. 

You know the 'outre' kind of writing that is so 'out there' that it's hard to come back to some semblance of sanity after you have either read, or written something out in the stratosphere of creativity. Not that pushing the envelope is bad. It's just not what I'm comfortable with. 

When I go in a furniture store, I do not care to consider one of those steely, leather strapped chairs designers rave about and commission based salesmen describe in glowing terms. They may be the cat's meow in design, but to me, they look rather uncomfortable. 

One in particular would leave a criss cross pattern on my back, for sure. Another would be rather hard to get into in the first place. No, give me a nice recliner or a good old comfy chair that my grandma would have liked. 

The same for cuisine, I mean food. The upscale dish with swirls of red stuff all over it and some green fluff on top along with mysterious sticks of something pierced through, is not what tempts my palate. Give me a pile of fluffy mashed potatoes with a pat of butter and a nice 
leg of chicken browned to a turn. 

Actually, I am a bit of an oddball with my food. Fresh vegetables, meat and fruit is what I like to use, avoiding most canned, packaged and ready sliced offerings. 

Not that I eat a lot of raw food, either. I usually cook them into a stew or bake them into a bread or cake. The other day I got some strawberries, blueberries and bananas. Someone suggested I throw them all in the blender, along with some veggies, and drink them as a smoothie for breakfast. 

It seemed like a good idea at the time, but when I got up in the morning, the thought of hearing that noisy blender roaring away, and me preparing all those ingredients for the chopping blade, frightened me. I can barely fix a cup of coffee and a bit of toast at that early hour, so - no go on the smoothie to start the day. 

Another oddity which my own family can attest to is cooking and baking without recipes. When I was a teen, they remind me, I went in the kitchen, which usually is where mother prepared everything and all we kids ever did was eat her wonderful cooking, I decided to put together many tasty ingredients, such as chocolate, sugar, butter, vanilla, nuts, raisins and probably a bit of flour, hoping to make a cake to suit my sweet tooth. 

This cake turned out to be kind of like a brick. It was dark, hard, and undigestible. What could have gone wrong? For I had used all good ingredients. Baking powder, that's what. Everyone got a good laugh at that one. 

Yet, I never learned my lesson, since I still cook and bake hoping, always hoping that the bread will rise, the rice will not glop, the pasta will be edible. 

So when it comes to writing and where that is going, I stick to the basics, simple words, not too many syllables, ideas that don't fly too far off the launching pad of my mind. Favorite authors are few, such as Jean Jacques Rousseau, James Whitcomb Riley, Ernest Hemingway and P. G. Wodehouse. 

It's admirable that there are so many writers who push the limits of the imagination and I wish them all well. However, I must stay true to my inner voice, the one that warns me - "Don't go there" when I stray too far from where I feel on solid ground. 

Comparing my inspirations to catching a tiger, or rather tiggre by the tail, is my way of visualizing that little spark that may turn into a poem or story. 

I imagine standing by a jungle and suddenly a tiger's tail peeks out from behind the bushes. If I don't immediately grab it, the tiger disappears into the dense growth (of my mind) and may never appear again. If anyone wonders where my ideas come from, I tell them it's all about grabbing the tiger by the tail. 

Let others grab for unicorns, extra terrestials and Loch Ness monsters, I'll take the tiger, I mean tiggre. 

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