I hate that word: inspiration.
It’s such fucking doggerel. An excuse. It pisses me off when other people say, “I’m waiting for inspiration.”
That motherfucker is like Godot. He’s not coming.
And now, I want to kick my own ass for using it. I know I’m just wasting time, playing another game of Free Cell with my word processor open in the background, telling myself, “I’m so uninspired.”
I know the solution. Close the game. Shut off the TV. Forget about taking out the garbage or putting away the dishes. Just write.
It’s like when you’re single, and nobody wants you. Can’t get a date to save your life. The instant you start dating someone, they’re lined up ‘round the block. You need to go out armed with a hockey stick to beat them away.
Ideas are like that. Sit there waiting for one, and it’s psychological Sahara. Start plugging away, and soon they’re coming so thick and fast that I can hardly work for the clatter in my head.
That is an entirely different problem.
I added a short list in the sidebar, updated every day or two, with links to stories and poems I’ve liked in the zines I read. Check ‘em out.