Some days, it begins with a line seemingly pulled from the air. For example:

Raspberries are a superior fruit. 

Or something innocuous like that. Though one could argue that such a statement may not be innocuous to those whose palates position the strawberry, the pineapple, or the paw-paw in a higher echelon than the raspberry. But does that really matter? Isn’t that just the detritus of overthinking? An avoidance of creating? Yes, it is. The point here is that the foundational sentence has been written. The hope being, of course, that this sentence will now provide some inspirational wellspring of brilliance.   

But it doesn’t. Not today. There’s nowhere else to go with it. No low-hanging fruit, as it were. 

And so the sentence is deleted; the foundation eliminated. Which is no way to start a story. Even an extraordinarily brief story geared toward those who are attention-span challenged.

The abysmal failure of this initial line quashes any inclination to snatch from mid-air another. A trip to the closest kitchen cupboard instead is urgently warranted. Yes. For inside that cupboard exists the realm of magic. If magic is a bag of miniature marshmallows and a box of Trader Joe’s Cheddar Rockets crackers, that is. Which, in fact, it is. The brain requires food to create, after all. Though one could argue that squishy little sugar pillows and space shuttle-shaped crackers sculpted from reconstituted cheese hardly qualify as any REAL sustenance. It could be though that the magic of these foodstuffs resides in their salty-sweet ability to lure the creative muse. Or the muses – if they’re traveling in a pack today.

And there it is. A notion. A spark. 

The Adventures of the Marshmallow-Eating Muses 

Hmmmmmm. A vision appears as a blurred Jasper Johns billboard image. His Usuyuki series, more specifically.It floats there for a bit. Its light comes to a fierce and rapid glow – begging coquettishly to be captivated. Then, just as quickly, it fizzles out. Gone. Houston, we have not achieved liftoff.

Then the crucial question arises. What, pray tell, are the cats doing right now? Surely they need attention. Or treats. A petting perhaps? Some play? It’s a ridiculous notion though. No offense, but they’re cats. These particular four-leggeds are entirely capable of making their needs known during the most inconvenient time for two-leggeds. This is well established in the owner’s manual and should come as no surprise. For now, they are getting their 22nd hour of sleep. Traitors.

Back at the table, the laptop beckons. The laptop goes by the name Maverick McClickyfingers (Double M to his friends) and his pronouns are he and him. Double M is being a dick today. No bones about it. (No pun intended.) He emits a silent screaming light from his screen – a skill he has mastered. Though one could argue a relatively useless skill. Then again, why be so argumentative today? It doesn’t seem to be serving anyone. And it sure as hell isn’t getting any stories written. 

Outside, the first stars appear. The cold silver-edged moon cuts a straight path through the orange-pink clouds. The birdsong has ceased, and the night-blooming flower buds shudder and shake in preparation for their moon-worship. Are the night-blooming flowers misunderstood by the vast majority that bloom during the day? Does the grandiflora rose cast a downward sneer on the evening primrose or the ostentatious sunflower roll its eyes at the quiet moonflower in its diurnal slumber? The bigger question is – What do a sunflower’s eyes even look like? 

Okay. Fine. The muses, the magic, Double M, and the magisterial felines elude today. It’s clear there will be no extraordinarily brief story. Alas, it’s a wonderful time to wave the white flag, to call uncle, and to surrender. 

Even more, it’s a wonderful time for a moon dance.