I had a tumble with another story on Friday; everything was swell until the splatter-worthy ending, which was of such caliber as to demand immediate resettlement in the "TO DO" folder. Afterward, I sunk into a bit of a funk when I realized that my well of ideas was a little dry.
So yesterday, I took a stroll. I told myself, half-heartedly, that I could find inspiration if only I were to use my legs a little. I passed the cheery Quebecois vendors of the Byward Market, the Bermuda-pantsed and fanny-packed tourists, and the shoeless, pan-handling bums; but nothing seemed worthy of my literary prevarications. Until a sight most mundane caught my attention.
It was nothing but a dreamcatcher, which, when considered among the superfluity of trinkets and money-thievery that abound in Ottawa's touristic zone, is an utterly mundane item. And yet, it was exactly the inspiration I needed, and was the font of an insanely fantastic short story which I banged out these past couple days.
Now, of course, the well is once more muddy. Dropping the bucket into its depths, I earlier this morning considered the literary possibilities of jam; but fruit preserves do not seem to possess the je-ne-sais-quoi of hackneyed aboriginal artifacts.
Oh, well. Once the rain stops, perhaps I shall take another walk.