Creativity Has Always Hated My Schedule

📅 March 8, 2026

I am at the library. A woman that should’ve been dead walks in, a straw bag hanging from her shoulder. She drops the bag, turns like Biden at G7, wanders off in search of books. I check out her ass the second she turns.

See, ass is the first thing I check out. It’s the first thing guys should check out. You’re a breast guy? Nah. What’re you going to do with breasts? Nothing. Zero.

Back to the story. None. It’s entirely hopeless back there, no pun intended. I mean, she’s white, plus she’s like 900 years old.

I go back to my laptop. Screen is still as blank as fifty minutes ago. 

I came here this morning feeling charged. I gorged myself on stories of Plath and Hemingway bursting with uncontrolled creativity, giving all night till exhaustion claimed them by morning. Hell, I even drank two fucking Red Bulls, vowing to disgorge. But, you see, that’s the terrible thing about motivation. It hypes you, then gives you the peace sign and whistles. And that’s the crazy thing about creativity. It hates my schedule.

Creativity has always hated my schedule. It has always come when there was no pen in sight. It has always come when I was in bed, wrapped up with my lady, warm and spent as hell. It has always come in the shower, soap suds in my eyes. It has always come when I was too stoned, too fucked up to lift a finger.

Never now. Even in the presence of the very people who made the very things I am verily impressed, surrounded, and inspired by.

I am impatient. I need to put something, anything down, but I can feel my focus falter. I log into WhatsApp and view all the statuses (yes, there’s a word like that. I just checked). Fat pig! I sneer at one of them, the one selling perfumes and lip gloss.

I go on Facebook. People are still as same as five years ago.

I go on Instagram.

Sad as it is to admit, I go on lindaikeji’s blog and scoop up some gossip where the news of this one lady is still trending. Ogala, they say her name is, a lady consumed by resentment, whose judgment has been impaired by one misfortune after another.

The old lady is back. Quiet. Four CDs in hand. Wanders as silently as a tired ghost would (assuming she’s not one already).

I face my laptop. Then I begin to write. This. 

Creativity (often) appears after the work begins.