In the writing process, I immerse myself intensely in my surroundings to develop imaginative ideas for my writings. Looking outside, the flock of white ibis (or is it ibi?) stalk through my yard on their stilty legs looking for itty-bitty ibis (ibi) food.
An iridescent iguana suns himself near the canal on an icky looking rock. It’s an incredible and impressive sight, these natural images I gaze upon as I construct meaning with my words. One would infer that I would indulge in this imagery for my impending novel. But no, not I, the impulsive impostor.
My identity as a writer often depends on immature idiocy, with injections of implications of impetuous immodesty. My words seek not to impress, but are often imprudent, indelicate and somewhat indecorous. Indignity is imposed and inflicted upon the reader. My works are incessantly impaled with humor and laughter at my own imperfections and idiosyncracies. I am my own best idiotic character.