At times, I get a kink in my creative tubing.
The most scathingly brilliant ideas form in my noggin, but can't find their way to my fingertips. I think them through thoroughly while washing dishes, hanging laundry, riding in the car, or nodding off to sleep. But when it comes time to type them up, they evade me like a deadbeat avoiding calls from creditors.
My ideas are like a strong-willed toddler trapped up inside a grabber machine. They can't get out without a major intervention from expert extractors, much anxiety is involved, tears are shed, and, like the toddler, they are not quite themselves when released.
These flashes of brilliance, like so many fat black waterbugs, crawl inside the roach motel of my cranium, but can never leave. I feel them skittering around attempting to check out, trying, trying, to no avail. They must be tossed out like yesterday's Caesar salad, once so crisp and flavorful, now limp and tasteless.
Writing is not pretty.