“Don’t wait to be inspired,” my grade nine English teacher wrote on the green chalk board of room 136. “Impulse, not inspiration, is what makes a writer write.”   

THREE PRE-IMPULSES

One.

My seven-year-old niece: I love butterflies. I watch them. Even the monarchs are so beautiful.

Me: I think so too. And you know what I can’t get over? How a butterfly starts out as a caterpillar.

Niece: And moths...

Me: Moths, too?

Niece: Moths start out as itch worms.

Me: What’s an itch worm?

Niece: An itch worm... is a little worm... where if it bites you... then it’s itchy for the rest of your life.

Me: Whoa. I never heard of an itch worm before. Where did you learn about them?

Niece: I learned it from myself when I was a baby.

Two:

My stepdad: Let’s heat up some of those... oh, what the hell are they. Spinach pies.

Me: Spanikopitas?

Stepdad: That’s it. Spaniko-pitas. I was confusing them with those other things.

Me: Which ones?

Stepdad: I knew you were going to ask me that. Shit, I’m trying to remember. Pause. What are those little triangles that come from the east?

Me: Samosas?

Stepdad: Samosas! Fuck, are they ever good.

Three:

Walking past my aunt while she’s watching TV.

My aunt: That was weird.

Me: What?

Aunt: Plants have ESP.

Me: Really?   

Aunt: That’s what “Weird or What” says.