It's like there's some kind highly unintelligent troll in my head that just grabs random things and squishes them together. Then just chucks these blobs of randomness at me, expecting me and my muse to do something with it.
And then the troll goes back to work.
The troll seems to work best when you're being entertained by a good book or show, using the information it's being presented with to put together some of the more usable blobs. And those ideas that kind of seem pointless. . . Well, he just couldn't find much material for use at the moment.
But those rare strikes of genius, the ones us writers live for, it's as if the troll had been working on a masterpiece, and sometimes this only occurs once in the trolls life. The troll isn't usually apt for genius.
The troll is more commonly known for throwing together some vaguely recongnizeable blobs, sending it to you and then passing on to the muse who tries to get something out of it, and convinces you to write on it for awhile before you both realize the troll has fooled you.
And he's laughing at you.
But even though the troll is a small, dim, sometimes unsavory fellow he works really hard, doing the dirty work by putting together the base of a story idea, before giving it to you and your muse to work on. Without him, there'd be NO stories.
And even if he's laughing at you, it was still an idea that you learned from, and something he can use for better material.
Perhaps for that masterpiece he's working on in the basement.