I wish inspiration could be injected intravenously, without delay. That I could wrap a rubber band around my arm and pull it tight with my teeth. Then give myself several swi- ft slaps with my middle and index fingers to the inside crook of my arm to pop the vein. Then without look- ing, (because I am afraid of needles) slowly insert the thin metal spear in my skin and puncture the vein. Draw back a bit of blood and watch it mix with my concoction. Then voila: ins- tant inspiration.
If only I could buy words by the bot- tle, so I could guzzle them down by the quart. And they could mix and swirl, swash and stir, with all my other ****** fluids. They could seep into my veins, via my stomach lining, and warm my body with a toxic glow. The words would blur my vision, mu- ddy my senses, and stumble my step. Then, after I consume more words th- an I can handle, I would projectile vo- mit and spew the words all over the page. Then the next morning I could rearrange the words into something remotely coherent.
But there is no such luck.
Instead I have to go toe-to-toe with each word, each syllable, with the utmost precision and vigilance. And let me tell you, these word “St- ing like a butterfly and float like a bee”. I give a left jab, a right hook, a shot to the kidneys, but it does no good. Most of the time I am on my heels; forced to be on the defense But of course I take a hit, or twenty- two. Until I am punch drunk, and everything is brilliant to me.