Stuck depending on me

I felt inspired today to write. I was listening to Decoder Ring Theatre's "Red Panda Adventures #59. I thought. I like stories. I want to tell stories. But now I'm stuck and afraid because the only stories I have are my own and either they are not exciting or tragic enough, or they're too personal.

How about one about clocks that won't stop ticking. Or silent bells. Or agoraphobic free-range chickens? or a woman who fails to punctuate correctly


An idea I've had for several years:
Does she deny reality so much that she wakes up in fantasy? What is real then? That sounds like it's been done. I wouldn't want to do anything that's already been done.

The world is underwater.

Will I have to shave my head when society has collapsed and I'm living like an urban nomad? Or will it fall out because of malnutrition.

Maybe I should write about all of my fears. All of them. Then I'd either find out that there's nothing to be afraid of or that there's a lot more to be afraid of.

How about an old picture that might magically turn out to be relevant? It's like they're all depending on me.