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Sorry Folks. The Well is Dry.

This is what you’re getting.

It’s that time of the week! It’s time for me to write something really, really funny and insightful. Preferably with a cute animal in the title and also some commentary on modern office culture. Or something feminist that is a little edgy, but not edgy enough to make the hoards of internet troll dudes come after me on twitter and yell at me about MEN’S RIGHTS and force me to set my profile to private, because how will Lucy Lawless finally decide to follow me back if my profile is set to private?

And heaven knows a little cash cash cash would be nice right about now. Mama wants a headboard for her bed so it doesn’t look like she’s still sleeping in a dorm room at the grand old age of and the thrift stores aren’t providing.

Maybe I should write a half-baked satirical piece that slides into your feed like a store brand Onion article.

  • “Millennials Kill Cameron Diaz.”
  • “Hiccups Huge Contributor to Global Warming.”
  • “Trump Claims Odin Granted Him The Power of Flight, He Just Chooses Not To Use It and Of Course He Doesn’t Hate Women.”

But I don’t want to write any of those pieces because they seem boring and probably would suck. People, the well is dry and I’m stuck in the midst of a Sexy French Depression.

So there’s only one thing to do when you don’t have any good ideas and that is to write about not having any good ideas.

Because I was raised in the theatrical tradition and the show must go on under every single circumstance. Even if the star is coughing up blood throughout every monologue. Even if the stage is swarming in bed bugs. Even if your life is unravelling at every seam and everyone who ever loved you is dead , you are required to give a performance that will bring the entire audience to its feet. With a single tear glistening in the corner of your eye, catching the light and making you look like a tragic but beautiful Ariadne as the cameras swoop around you.

I mean, it’s in the contract. Read the small print.

👀

Running low on good ideas is hard. What am I supposed to do?

I guess the only thing is to work this thing out together, right here in real time as I am typing this piece. The well is dry. The well is dry. We have to fill the well back up somehow. Maybe with water. Maybe with Skittles. Preferably with funny jokes and heartwarming anecdotes that will make readers think, “Wow that Sarah is smart! I sure wish I’d written that! I’m going to give her all my claps and also this glazed donut I wasn’t going to eat.”

I guess I could steal a few ideas. That’s always an option, right? But I am a terrible cat burglar, always setting off the alarm and mewing loudly. Someone would find me out within ten seconds. And I don’t need that on my record, not after I worked so hard to get all the duck stuff expunged.

Things I probably need to get my mojo back:

  • more sleep
  • healthy foods
  • hope in the future of humanity
  • your glazed donut

Is it weird to admit you don’t know what to write? Is it allowed on Medium? Am I supposed to be a paragon of perfect, professional writerliness always keeping the illusion going? Or is it charming to admit my own vulnerability, deficiencies and utter uselessness in this moment? Will you like me more, or less? Just like me, please. I know how to tap dance!

Oh, and btw, if you’re someone who recently received a job application from me and wound up here through some twisty and unadvised path, NONE OF THIS IS REAL! I HAVE A MILLION IDEAS AND WOULD LOVE TO CREATE A CUSTOM CAMPAIGN FOR YOU THAT THE MILLENNIALS WILL LOSE THEIR SOCKS OVER. I AM LITERALLY AN IDEA MACHINE. THE IDEAS COME OUT OF ME WITH SUCH SPEED AND REGULARITY THAT SOMETIMES I HAVE TO WEAR A FULL BODY CLOAK TO KEEP THEM FROM KNOCKING THINGS OVER. I AM SEXY ENOUGH THAT I WILL LOOK GREAT ON YOUR WEBSITE, BUT NOT SO SEXY THAT I MAKE PEOPLE UNCOMFORTABLE. RIGHT IN THE PERFECT MIDDLE GROUND OF SEXINESS. DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD THAT IS TO FIND? ALSO I GRAMMAR BETTER THAN OTHER PERSONS AND HAVE STRONG OPINIONS ABOUT OTTERS.

Everyone else, you can keep reading.

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Photo by Belinda Fewings on Unsplash

Oh my god, what am I going to do. I am nothing without my ideas. They’re never coming back, are they? I’m empty, empty, standing at the bottom of a well, staring up at the sky, wishing Lassie wasn’t dead.

Did you know there were eleven generations of Lassie dogs? Lassie would get old or die and they’d just slide another one in.

Maybe creativity is like Lassie.

Maybe it dies sometimes.

But the show goes on and Lassie is reborn and no one knows the difference.

Or maybe I’m completely screwed. Yeah, that’s probably it.

Written by

Engaged in inadvisable wordsmitheries and other creative acts. http://sarahlofgren.com

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