The Search for a Metaphor for My Current Inability to Write
I keep checking my creative mailbox, but it remains empty.
My river of creativity has been dammed up and diverted--by The Man!
My stories are songs too beautiful to be sung. Or too stupid. I get those confused.
My stories are unhatched eggs...mm, delicious eggs.
Though I continue to strike the match of my imagination against the box of language, the red stuff just flakes uselessly off the head. Too bad I never figured out that whole "flint" thing.
I have a recipe for a story, but not the ingredients. Because I haven't gone shopping yet. Or possibly because I have no money to shop with.
My writing is that pigeon I see at the 2nd Avenue bus stop that has only one foot and hops around kind of pathetically. And yet survives! Survives...despite its one pathetic little stub of a foot.
My ideas are porn stars who can't get work.
I left my fingers at the office again. (I need to tie them to my coat cuffs with a string so I don't lose them.)
The cage of my creative consciousness contains a wild and powerful tiger. If I let it out, it might attack people. Better off just keeping it where it is.
The lead of my pencil is impeded by marshmallow. The marshmallow stuck to my mental pencil point, I mean, which represents...yeah. Still not writing.
My stories are unborn flowers curled beneath the surface of a desert where the rain does not fall. Also, I am an umbrella seller.
My words are only bees. Bzz. Bzz.
I myself am a story unwritten. How can I take pen to paper before I have written myself? Shyeahh.
My words are trapped and unspoken, like soft, muffled sounds locked in the throat of a beautiful man. If only I could walk over to that man, cup his face gently, and pull that dirty sock out.
I could try turning on the lamp of my writing, but I think the electricity's out anyway.
I invited the strippers to my literary party, but...um, wait. I might possibly have forgotten to call the strippers.
My story is the last digit of pi. Fucking pi, man.
My cup does not runneth over. It runneth away.
My creative faucet may be turned off, but the gentle drip of words never entirely ceases. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. OH MY FUCKING GOD I'M GOING INSANE. Drip.
I've been bitten by the vampire of ennui and lost my creative soul.
I sold my soul to Satan for the ability to write, and the bastard gypped me. Seriously, learn from my mistake: don't trust this guy "Satan."
I cannot conceive, for my authorial womb is but a rocky, barren void--yadda yadda.
I've conceived. I just can't get this thing to come out. It's been nine years now. I'm actually pretty used to it. The cats seem to like it.
The cake of my fiction is only half-baked and I used baking soda instead of powder, so you totally wouldn't want to eat it anyway.
The stars above have all fallen down--and so of course we've all died and you couldn't read anything I wrote anyway.
I'm not a creator...ha ha! I lied! I'm actually The Creator. I'm just having a bad eon.
The story I want to write is a cat trapped in a bedroom, unable to escape and meowing like an insane freak.
My authorial pen has run out of ink and I have no squid.
I'm actually writing backwards from my ending, but I can't get beyond the period.
The llama of my words is hungry and cannot mwaa. (Wikipedia: The sound of llama making groaning noises or going "mwa" is often a very good sign of fear or anger.)
Before I can create, I must first eat my words. And by "words" I mean "worms."
The words I wait for are apples that do not fall. And by "words" I mean "worms."
My muse does not return my calls.
My muse was run over by a tractor.
My muse left on a jet-plane, which crashed in the ocean and sank three thousand feet where her rotted corpse was eaten by mollusks.
My muse was killed by a six-fingered man. Someday I will find him. And when I do, I will say to him, "Hello, my name is Anna. You killed my fiction. Prepare to die."
My muse is a muzzled dog on a leash who refuses to bite me.
My muse is a bone and I gnaw and gnaw at her, but to be honest, this metaphor really isn't going anywhere. I was going to try something that played on the idea of nutrients or maybe sharpening my teeth, but then it suddenly didn't seem worth the effort. Which is possibly a metaphor in itself. Do you like doughnuts?
The wind of my voice blows but the sails are not raised.
Oh, these eel-infested waters....
My river of creativity has been dammed up and diverted--by The Man!
My stories are songs too beautiful to be sung. Or too stupid. I get those confused.
My stories are unhatched eggs...mm, delicious eggs.
Though I continue to strike the match of my imagination against the box of language, the red stuff just flakes uselessly off the head. Too bad I never figured out that whole "flint" thing.
I have a recipe for a story, but not the ingredients. Because I haven't gone shopping yet. Or possibly because I have no money to shop with.
My writing is that pigeon I see at the 2nd Avenue bus stop that has only one foot and hops around kind of pathetically. And yet survives! Survives...despite its one pathetic little stub of a foot.
My ideas are porn stars who can't get work.
I left my fingers at the office again. (I need to tie them to my coat cuffs with a string so I don't lose them.)
The cage of my creative consciousness contains a wild and powerful tiger. If I let it out, it might attack people. Better off just keeping it where it is.
The lead of my pencil is impeded by marshmallow. The marshmallow stuck to my mental pencil point, I mean, which represents...yeah. Still not writing.
My stories are unborn flowers curled beneath the surface of a desert where the rain does not fall. Also, I am an umbrella seller.
My words are only bees. Bzz. Bzz.
I myself am a story unwritten. How can I take pen to paper before I have written myself? Shyeahh.
My words are trapped and unspoken, like soft, muffled sounds locked in the throat of a beautiful man. If only I could walk over to that man, cup his face gently, and pull that dirty sock out.
I could try turning on the lamp of my writing, but I think the electricity's out anyway.
I invited the strippers to my literary party, but...um, wait. I might possibly have forgotten to call the strippers.
My story is the last digit of pi. Fucking pi, man.
My cup does not runneth over. It runneth away.
My creative faucet may be turned off, but the gentle drip of words never entirely ceases. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. OH MY FUCKING GOD I'M GOING INSANE. Drip.
I've been bitten by the vampire of ennui and lost my creative soul.
I sold my soul to Satan for the ability to write, and the bastard gypped me. Seriously, learn from my mistake: don't trust this guy "Satan."
I cannot conceive, for my authorial womb is but a rocky, barren void--yadda yadda.
I've conceived. I just can't get this thing to come out. It's been nine years now. I'm actually pretty used to it. The cats seem to like it.
The cake of my fiction is only half-baked and I used baking soda instead of powder, so you totally wouldn't want to eat it anyway.
The stars above have all fallen down--and so of course we've all died and you couldn't read anything I wrote anyway.
I'm not a creator...ha ha! I lied! I'm actually The Creator. I'm just having a bad eon.
The story I want to write is a cat trapped in a bedroom, unable to escape and meowing like an insane freak.
My authorial pen has run out of ink and I have no squid.
I'm actually writing backwards from my ending, but I can't get beyond the period.
The llama of my words is hungry and cannot mwaa. (Wikipedia: The sound of llama making groaning noises or going "mwa" is often a very good sign of fear or anger.)
Before I can create, I must first eat my words. And by "words" I mean "worms."
The words I wait for are apples that do not fall. And by "words" I mean "worms."
My muse does not return my calls.
My muse was run over by a tractor.
My muse left on a jet-plane, which crashed in the ocean and sank three thousand feet where her rotted corpse was eaten by mollusks.
My muse was killed by a six-fingered man. Someday I will find him. And when I do, I will say to him, "Hello, my name is Anna. You killed my fiction. Prepare to die."
My muse is a muzzled dog on a leash who refuses to bite me.
My muse is a bone and I gnaw and gnaw at her, but to be honest, this metaphor really isn't going anywhere. I was going to try something that played on the idea of nutrients or maybe sharpening my teeth, but then it suddenly didn't seem worth the effort. Which is possibly a metaphor in itself. Do you like doughnuts?
The wind of my voice blows but the sails are not raised.
Oh, these eel-infested waters....