On the Quirkiness of Creativity


I’m out of ideas.

There should be a grocery out there for ideas.

I know the Internet’s got plenty—of ideas that is—but that’s what I’d call a hypermarket, and I never could shop in hypermarkets (my brain shortcircuits).

I need something small and manageable, where I can walk quickly past the shelves and see what’s on offer at a glance, and not have to rely on frantically roller-blading personnel directing me to aisle #56 (or was it #43?) for a can of something that I’ll quickly forget in the presence of two hundred of its indistinguishable variations (light, natural, no trans fats, unsweetened, unsalted…).

I need something that’ll give me the basics—something simple, classic, solid, enduring; something that’s clearly differentiated from its neighbors because they’re entirely different things.

Then I’d grab it, bring it home, put it in a blender, and while watching the pulp turn to froth, think of something entirely unrelated, and leave the kitchen to go up to my bedroom to sit down on my laptop and type.

Because as all writers know, ideas are what happen when you’re thinking of other ideas.

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