I'm here. Writing. Writing basically nothing. Writing basically nothing that you're all going to read because I have somehow convinced some of you that I know what I'm talking about.
I don't, though. Like, not at all.
I've got an essay due this week for my Early American Literature class discussing the similarities and differences in the depictions of religion in two opposite sixteenth century works of Native American literature. And even thinking about all of that is getting me down. I've dog-eared different pages of my texts and tried to come up with something, but...
As in, not even one word.
I thrive on inspiration. Not creativity as much as inspiration, but if you want to put them in the same definition bracket, whatever. I just mean that I have to have something to write about to write anything good at all. And sometimes that happens. Sometimes weird things happen where I run into a boy I was sort of curious about for a while and he ditched out on me (story of my entire life) and there's something I can work with there. But other times, like tonight, the boys upstairs that invited Sam and me to game night last sunday are chasing around their adorable puppy, Copper, and I can hear every creek in the ceiling, every scratch on their floor. And it hinders me from writing anything genius at all about Cabeza de Vaca or The Virgin Guadelupe.
So, here I am, punching out my frustration on this keyboard, praying that inspiration strikes enough for just five pages. That's all I need. WHERE MY MUSES AT?!
And so, I often frustrate myself. And this is turning into a rant which is further frustrating me.
P.S. I didn't proof read this. So, it is what it is.