The well of inspiration runs mighty dry as of late, which I think is one of the more serious symptoms of the “Nineteen Years Old And Still Living At Home” disease. I was talking about this with Anastasia just last night: that creative spark that was so brilliant during my senior year and a little past has cooled down to something intolerable for me. It’s not in danger of being snuffed out (god, I hope I’m dead or comatose before that happens) but it seems like without the ambience (i.e. drama) of high school to fan things up, my imagination has little to sustain itself upon.

Which is the funny thing, really. The imagination is supposed to be able to atl east sustain itself, but mine works by absorbing the people and events around me and shooting them back out in re-splendored form. The patented Bizarre-o-Sponge.

I guess mostly I need to grow up, get out, and if I’m lucky, find my muse. Yeah, that’s what I’ll call her. They’ll ask, Hey Chaz, is that your girlfriend? And I’ll say, Nope! It’s my muse! And I’ll look at her dreamily as my friends check the immediate area for hallucinogens.

?I felt endlessly powerful and endlessly optimistic; my pockets were empty, but my head was full of things I wanted to say and my heart was full of stories I wanted to tell. Sounds corny now; felt wonderful then. Felt very cool. More than anything else I wanted to get inside my readers’ defenses, wanted to rip them and ravish them and change them forever with nothing but story. And I felt I could do those things. I felt I had been made to do those things.
?How conceited does that sound? A lot or a little? Either way, I don’t apologize. I was nineteen.

???????????????????????????????????-Stephen King, On Being Nineteen