When it's the latter, my repetitive mind -- not so much a lizard brain as a perpetual child brain -- usually throws up a line from Winnie-the-Pooh "he felt singy." Here is that jewel in its setting (House at Pooh Corner, Ch. 6):
One day, when Pooh was walking towards this bridge, he was trying to make up a piece of poetry about fir-cones, because there they were, lying about on each side of him, and he felt singy.Blog posts ain't poems, for sure. But..."There they were, lying about on each side of him, and he felt singy." That's how it is, I suspect, for anyone who writes something new most days. Or some days.
So he picked a fir-cone up, and looked at it, and said to himself, "This is a very good fir-cone,
ng ought to rhyme to it." But he couldn't think of anything. And then this came into his head suddenly:
Here's a myst'ry'Which doesn't make sense,' said Pooh, 'because Kanga doesn't live in a tree.
About a little fir-tree.
Owl says it's his tree,
And Kanga says it's her tree.
In fact the Pooh books are peppered with snapshots about the creative process. I won't say that that's all that Pooh is about -- it's about safety, and friendship, and pleasure, and putting up patiently with a good deal of foolishness. But it's all in the context of creative play, which generates all those pleasures. Catches, them, stores them. In honeypots.
Herman Cain on Libya: "The Spotted or Herbaceous Backson?"
Of dead cats and live Tiggers