...

What a ridiculous thing to promise. The smart things part at least. This shall be not so much a complaint as it is an unfortunate truth.
I have nothing.
There is no parachute here. No classroom to assign inspiration, no project having been toiled over since middle school, and no grand new idea. My best bet at this point? It has come to this? Boss of the Bathroom. For the love-- That's my big focus. A third grader's book, a story whose main plot goal was to fill up the pink papered spiral notebook. That or the potentially interesting story about a guy who finds himself paralysed, set up to marry an unenthused young woman, and is inexplicably spiritually linked to a chimneysweep girl.
One would think such a conglomeration of characters would spark some sort of fire in a creative brain.
One would hope that brain would be the writer.
One would also pray that the fire sparked in the aforementioned brain did not incinerate the head, hair, eyeballs, and after leaving zero residual presence of brain or face would not render the flame stupid and trite.