About inspiration, delivering newspapers and verbal vomitting!

Bleeerrrrk!!

Okay, okay, so lately I've been busy writing, doing publishing things and I haven't been blogging or twittering as much as I'd like to. But there's another reason for that as well. I HAVE WRITER'S BLOCK!

Yes, it happens to the best of us.

But since a week or so ago I have a new side job, which is delivering newspapers (go on, laugh it up!).

Today I was delivering newspapers on one street and I couldn't find the numbers 5-17. There was number 1 and 3, then number 19, 21, all the way up to 103! But no 5 to 17. WHAT WAS GOING ON HERE?
After driving down the street a couple of times and assuring that I wasn't going mental, I found an elderly men who explained to me the following:

When the houses were built, circa 1990's, the original plan was to build a small apartment building at the start of the street which would have the numbers 5 to 17. The apartment building was never built, but the zoning commission never took the numbers out of the roster. Therefore, on every list of the town the numbers still show, but there are no actual houses. THEY ONLY EXIST IN THEORY...

On the way back home, my mind was adapting all this information into a story. There was the young and strikingly handsome paper-delivering guy and A SNOOTY OVERWEIGHT AND VERY PSYCHOTIC BUREAUCRAT at city hall with very evil plans that somehow incorporated these non-existent houses. He worked alone, eating one apple at lunch which he would peel and cut in parts very delicately and slowly.

Kafka-esque images spewed forth from my mind. A portal would open, leaking Lovecratian monsters into our dimension. The world would be in peril if it wasn't for this one young, muscular, BRAVE NEWSPAPER GUY!

The possibilities were endless...

What I'm trying to say in this round-about way is that inspiration can be anywhere. It could leave you for weeks, make you wonder if you've actually lost it and now all that awaits is a simple life as an office drone. All your dreams of winning a Nobel Prize shattered and forever gone...

But then, one day, it trikes you again and you feel it in every fingertip! YOU'RE A WRITER! HaHa, this was what I was born to do! And you set yourself down with a cup of tea, a notebook and a pencil and out it pours, like thick pea soup splattering on the page. Verbal vomit! Oh yes, people, I'm back and very much so!

Keep an eye out for me... I'm on the way up...

Marcel