A Discourse on the Stubborn Ways of Genius or the Last Minute Muse

By Yours Truly, Who Has Known Panic More Intimately Than Profit

Now don’t go imaginin’ you can twist the spigot of your skull and expect a torrent of fine ideas to come gushin’ out like a river bustin’ her britches in spring. That’s a fool’s notion, friend, and I say it plain, with no garnish.

Creativity, she’s a peculiar old gal—proud, temperamental, and ornery as a mule in a rainstorm. She don’t show up when you call or stay when you holler.

No, sir, she waits till you’re good and desperate—eyes wide as saucers, ink dry, deadlines cacklin’ like devils in the dark—and then, she waltzes in like she owns the place, full of spark and sass, wearin’ the perfume of catastrophe and inspiration all mixed together. It’s that late-night, sweat-drippin’, heart-palpitin’ kind of moment when the brain finally catches fire, not from wisdom, but fear.

Ain’t it curious?