“The thing is, you can’t write about writing. It’s been done to death.”
The expression on my neighbor’s garden gnome was fiercely determined.
“Everybody says to write from life. That’s my life.”
I don’t make it a habit of arguing with garden gnomes; they’re known to be particularly stubborn.
“That’s why it’s been done to death. Adult writers lock themselves up in a room to work on their craft, and before you know it the only thing they have to write about is being locked up in a room working on their craft. Haven’t you ever read The Yellow Wallpaper?”
As a matter of fact, I have.
“How is it that you’ve read The Yellow Wallpaper?”
“This isn’t a real hose, smart-ass.” He gestured with the ceramic spigot that was glued to his hand. “I’m not actually watering anything, I’m just decorative. I get bored.”
“So you read second-wave feminist literature in your spare time?”
The gnome sighed deeply enough to make his little pointed beard tremble. “Did you hear the part about how I’m just supposed to be decorative? I have a special appreciation for Gilman. I like Chopin too, if you were going to ask.”
I was.
“But we’re talking about you and your lame excuse for a story idea. Why don’t you get out of your house and experience something? Inspiration doesn’t just fly out of your ass.”
“Hey!” I was taken aback. After all, that was the very reason I was outside and available to be lectured at by a garden gnome. “I’m outside right now, just so I can get away from my desk.”
“Humph.” The gnome was not impressed. “Standing on your itty bitty lawn and bemoaning your missing talent is not a unique experience.”
“Talking to a garden gnome is pretty unique.”
“Bah! I knew you’d find a way to crawl back in your hole. Fine! Go then. Some creatures aren’t meant to see the light of day. Like earthworms. And moles. Grubs. Bats. Cave fish. Hoffman’s two-toed sloth….” He waddled away, mumbling the homo genus of various nocturnal and underground animals.