Story Ideas but No Actual Story Writing

There must be something that occurs in the brain--some kind of procrastination chemical--that makes it so easy for me to think of things I'd like to write about only during those moments where I can't possibly write. I'm late for work, or I'm skiing down a mountain or I'm being mugged and that's when I tell myself, I really have to write this down at some point. And I don't. For instance, I saw this regular looking guy the other day outside of the fountain at Passyunk Square, just circling it and occasionally, very casually, dipping down to scoop the lucky pennies out of it. What's his story? The truth is that I haven't been writing (not in this blog, not in my journal), and it makes my mind and self feel creatively flabby--lazy, unproductive--even though I think about stories a lot of the time.

Dan wants to write one about his former landlady, an 80-something year old woman who's living in this giant house where her family used to be, and she's losing her ability to keep it up. The rain gullies came down, there's water flooding the basement, a giant tree smashed in the roof, and she also can't keep tenants, because she's not much of a people person. In the same breath that she told Dan she would've done anything to keep him as a tenant, she said that she also thought she should've charged him more rent b/c I stay over every other weekend. When Dan moved out this week, she just sat on a chair in the hallway, watching the movers take away his things and crying about how terrible it was, and could the movers please not track mud into the house? She might make a good subject for a story, but on the other hand, it's a fairly familiar theme--as the house disintegrates around her, so does she. I told him that I was more interested in the man who was moving out--why did he stay so long and what made him finally decide that he deserved better? A good girlfriend is what I'm thinking.

In the meantime, here are some windows for you.