My brain isn’t working. It’s like a pebble got stuck in the gears. When I sit down (and stand up) to do some creative writing for Lone Swing, I come up with nothing. A puff of smoke escapes trough my nose, like one that rises from a burnt out motor. Perhaps the idea generator in my skull is dead, ceasing to operate, gave up, bored.
How can I not be inspired? For once this year the sun is shining and the surface temperature is above twenty degrees. Buds are on the trees, grass is turning green, girls in tank tops, and guys are showcasing their hairy legs (which is never pretty). Maybe I can only write about miserable things. Maybe I am just miserable because I am trapped inside this office, and that’s why there are no good ideas.
Maybe because it’s so hot out, all my ideas evaporated; this is Alberta after all, a semi-arid landscape.
As a write this, I can feel the goop In my hands. It is stringy, smooth, and purple, like the guts of an alien. That is what my idea generator is producing! How am I supposed to mold goop into the stuff readers can, at the very least, moderately enjoy? This goop would better serve lubricating creaky doors.
Instead of kicking the idea generator, hoping it’ll suddenly start, I should look for a fix. Duct tape, glue, and staples are good temporary fixes. I have this more permanent solution. It comes from the fact I haven’t been challenging myself lately. I need constraints on my writing, cause that’s how you get better. Changing your rhythm. Asking yourself to write something you haven’t before.