It’s been a long time, far too long, since I’ve seen a good thick storm of ideas. Out in the fields the stories are looking parched, getting skinny instead of big and fat and prime for market.
The stalks of novellas are wilting, and the vignettes have all but dried up and blown away in the dusty hot winds of inevitable disappointment. There’s cactus novels in the hollows, hardy little organisms that can live on practically no ideas, but they’re hard to harvest with their writhing thorns, and harder to sell on the market.
I used to be able to pipe ideas in from the local stream, but that’s almost dried up now, and what remains is brackish with some kind of indigestible and sleazy substance floating across the surface. I tried filtering it but the filter clogs up and the pump burns out, and I’m left standing there in a cloud of broken mental processes and muck.
It’s been a long time, far too long, since I’ve seen a good thick storm of ideas. Even in my dreams the skies are clear and the landscape barren.
I wonder if I made a mistake in trying to be a farmer of thoughts.