It's quiet here at work. Most people have gone home for the weekend and I have just a half hour left to go. With all my work done for the day I can think of no better way to spend my remaining time than by writing.
But what fresh stories are waiting to be put down on paper? I must admit, the blank page frightens as much as it excites me. I feel the pressures of untold stories bearing down on me with relentless energy. They remain at the ends of my imagination, hovering on the edges, veiled in fog. I long for them to come into view and present themselves clearly, but it's a useless wish. I must fish for them, dragging my net through the foggy waters, fighting and pulling stories into the light. Some are thin and small, not worth the effort, but they're good practice for those big, meaty, gleaming ones I know lie just beneath the surface, wating to be found.
I get frustrated a lot, tired of fighting and pulling at my own imagination. Why must it be so willful? So tired and preoccupied? Doesn't it know that within its folds lies my liberation? But I am so easily distracted, so quick to shut down and give in to outside temptations. Why is it so hard to realize that the depths of my imagination hold far greater treasures than TV or the internet could possibly provide? The delicacies of the imagination are far superior to the junkfood diet of one-sided entertainment. The glowing box on the wall will not fulfill me the way writing can.
Is it no wonder then, that my imagination is fat and lazy and refusing to cooperate? Silly, lazy brain. You're supposed to hum with electricity and ideas, and instead you soak in a stew of bland, shallow thoughts. I will put you on a diet! Strip you of your fatty, unnourishing, unstimulating enterprises and exercise you! My imagination shall be as fit as a marathon runner, as flexible and artistic as an acrobat. I shall put down the remote and take up the pen!