I have worked through some plot points on my book, flushed out a new character and even took the time to coordinate some scenes.
Which I wrote down on the back of a piece of paper.
Stuffed in the bottom of my purse.
SIGH. I'm just lacking in - everything. I have no drive. No determination. No energy. No inspiration. Nada.
If inspiration was a drug - I'd be Barry Bonds. I'd be four-hundred pounds of pure inspiration meat. I could take three words, thrown together at random and produce a poem that would bring tears to the eyes of the world. I'd make the world cry, I would, and that woudln't be the amazing part. The truly phenomenal part of my drug-induced poetry would be the fact that I wrote it - because in the land of suckage - my poetry, as it is today, reigns supreme.
For my English 101 class we were forced at gunpoint (more figuritively than literally) to write poetry. So I sat on my front porch and tried to write a sonnet about the old tree in my yard. Utter crap. I then zeroed in on the rusty, dilapidated fence, once white and regal, now bent and useless. Yucky.
I sat up, stretched and then noticed something odd. The hanging plants from the sides of the house were gone. They were mostly dead (yes - I killed flowers even then) but I was giving it a good watering every now and then - it wasn't all brown - yet.
A pink houserobe caught the corner of my eye. Madeline, the 80-year-old woman from across the street was busily replanting her newly acquired hanging pots with pansies("she's a harlot, she is." My grandmother would say. "Went to school with her. Hooker.") . She sat on her porch with a cigarette dangling from her withered lips and the plants between her legs. She looked at me as if daring me to come and reclaim my $4.99 foiliage.
I stared. And then I started writing: An Ode to the Eighty Year Old Hooker...
And I got an "A". :)