Inspiring Minds Wanna Know...

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". :)