I am lying here waiting for inspiration to come and may as well be waiting for Ed McMahon, who ended up needing his million dollar check as much as any of us.
Has my inspiration been foreclosed on?
In the sixth grade, we were assigned by the most magnificent teacher ever, Mrs. Hole, to keep a journal. We had to make an entry every day. I was a seasoned procrastinator even then (see Mountain Day, Here I Come), and managed to write most of the entries in the day or two before they were due.
By the fifth or sixth entry, which sounded suspiciously like the previous pages, Mrs. Hole made a note, something to the effect of, “Variety adds interest.” I saw her point. But I still didn’t get what the assignment was really about.
Sure, it was about discipline and the fact that the events and angst of any given day would provide a subject or at the very least lend texture and interest. But more, it was about process: writing as a process, in which practice might actually result in strengthening voice and skill. It was about evolution–not the catastrophic evolution caused by meterorites or cranking out twenty journal entries in one terrible evening, but mutation over time. Like all those guys in the Book of Genesis who beget and beget and beget until the fellow at the end of the five-inch long paragraph about begetting is no longer a woolly mammoth but a modern day elephant. (I prefer a loose, metaphorical reading of the Bible.)
And so, even though my inspiration is now owned by the bank, I am begetting a blog post. Somewhere out there, Mrs. Hole would be proud.
What did you beget today?