…
The tree’s leaves… willow in the soft wind and
Willow’s not a verb, is it?
…
Why the hell am I writing about a tree? I don’t care about some boring made-up tree.
No one wants to read about trees anyway…

Looking for inspiration.
Preferably the kind that sparks a brilliant idea that unravels into my first bestselling novel.
Will pay. Actually, won’t pay. Still, though.

She turned her head and shouted… to the heavens…
Really, Tova? To the heavens?
Do you think you’re Dickens or something?
…
Well, I’ve never read Dickens. I’m assuming he was a good writer because everyone still knows his name
And he’s been dead for a really long time,
Like Beethoven, but I don’t even listen to classical music, and
…
Will they remember my name?
And will I want to be remembered for what I’m being remembered for
and will I want…
Will I want
…

I can’t post about a tree or the heavens or anything too emotional
and I keep getting sidetracked by monotonous rants in my mind
and I guess I should be funny but sometimes it just doesn’t work
because funny is only funny when funny isn’t forced
and I’m staring at my fingers and my mind is still
[my fingers on the white-and-grey keyboard (duh)],
and I can’t write about my fingers either
because uninspired inspiration makes for uninspired writing and
…

…
So what?