inspire me

I have been suffering of a lack of inpiration recently. All I can get to paper are depressing short stories about unrequited/irrational (isn't it always irrational anyway?) love with resulting death.
Ah, the daily problems of an aspiring writer... Yes, I have the audacity to call myself a writer. (Oh crap now I'm even starting to talk all poshy-pompous like those 'intellectual wordsmiths'.)
I like the word 'wordsmith', by the way. It gives the work of a writer a whole new meaning. I actually worked up something on that subject, though it's just a rough outline and terribly unrefined.
A writer must be mad to a certain degree to be able to write stories. He must be completely off his rocker to write good stories. Just think: How else should he/she be able to invent and also sustain so many characters and their habits and and and...?
Anyway, an exerpt from my work today, which hasn't been very satisfying:

I want to be a writer.
Why?
Because I have ideas. Loads and loads of ideas. It's like my head is just cramped with voices and happenings that are just waiting to be written down. Sometimes I think I might go mad because of them. I will go mad. Someday. Probably I'm mad already. You have to be if you want to be a writer.
You have to have the iron will of a tyrant so that you can create new worlds, empires, a new universe.
You have to have the gentle heart of a maiden to create stories of friendship and love.
You have to have the dark mind of a devil in order to create villains and evil of all kinds.
You have to have the naive thoughts of a child so you can create one utopia after the other.
Having so many characters in your head, so many ideas, so many things does make you go crazy, you know.

I want to be a writer.
Why?
Because I want to dispatch myself from reality and escape into my phantasies. What better way is there to spend your life in ignorant bliss?

And another one, just because I'm in the mood:
I make words come alive. The letters dance before your eyes and form stories.
They laugh, cry, shout, whisper... they tell you about far-away places and kings on golden thrones--- I create entire worlds.
I am a god.
My pen is my wand. I make magic happen on a mere piece of paper. My words open the door to a universe of phantasy. My phantasy. Your phantasy-
I am a writer.
My head is full of voices. They struggle to break free and when they do, they flood out of my hand in waterfalls of ink. They torment me. They keep talking to me, whispering into my ear at night. They urge me to let them out into the world.
I am a poor fool with no sleep to spare, haunted by my own creations. 


Ta-daaa.

/P.