I woke up one morning and said, “Oh my cheese.
Where’d all my smarts go? They escaped on the breeze.”
I chased them in my slippers. I chased them in socks.
They weren’t in my mailbox. They weren’t with the fox.
I asked Mister Teapot, “Have you seen my brain?”
He sputtered and whistled and said, “No, not again.”
My spoon pointed northward. My fork pointed west.
My coffee cup shouted, “You could use a long rest.”
I zoomed with my vacuum. I stood on a chair.
I sniffed like a beagle and gulped at the air.
But when I asked my hamster named Bart
He said, “Don’t look at me for writing smarts.”
Some folks act all brainy, their noses held high,
But inside their noggins are crumbs of old pie.
They babble and brag until their egos inflate—
Then trip on their shoelaces coming out the gate.
Writers can ask the weirdest questions about things:
“Do dragons wear dentures? Do hippos have wings?
“What sound does a pickle make when learning ballet?
“Nobody could tell me why my plot just ran away.”
I couldn’t find writing wisdom hiding anywhere inside.
It sure wasn’t in any of the obscure places I had tried.
Smarts come from God, it seems. He knows this stuff,
Which might explain why my drafts have been so tough.
Whenever my brain fizzles like a soda gone flat,
Or my hero sounds like a confused laundromat,
I should ask God for help. He can fix the bad part
Where my story forgot to be good from the start.
Can I be a wise writer, staying humble and small.
Where goof-ups bring giggles, with no worries at all?
I can learn from my flops, grinning from ear to ear
God can be my guide so the bad will disappear.
I must focus my quest with my keyboard in hand—
Through jungles of nonsense as his smarter words land.
For writing smarts come from God when sought from the heart.
Yes, that’s where I must look when I’ve lost my writer smarts.
