Inspiration Separation

Another piece that’s darkened a few spots online. But it’s still soooo accurate.


Blink. Blink. Blink.

The cursor continued its unending flicker on my screen. All around it sat blank white space—an electronic page just ready and waiting for my fingers to tip-toe across the keys and fill it. Letters into words, words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs. Ideas expressed, all thanks to that blinking little vertical line.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

It’s hypnotic. It’s maddening. It’s intimidating.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Like a heartbeat, it continues its predictable rhythm.

Blink. Blink. Bli—

I’m hungry. Can’t write the next ‘Great American Novel’ on an empty stomach, can I? So I head off to the kitchen to whip myself up some nutritious sustenance. Halfway through my sandwich I notice the cat dish is empty. Might as well feed them while I’m at it. Then I realize I hadn’t attended to the litter boxes as of yet, so I figure now might be a good time to take care of that. You know, while I’m thinking about it. After taking the now-full trash bag outside, I head back toward my laptop, full of fresh resolve to get some actual writing done—boy, the floor could use a good vacuum. What the heck, I’m up anyway, right? But I can’t vacuum without dusting first, so it’s back into the kitchen for the supplies. Oops, never cleaned up after myself when I made that sandwich. Better take care of that . . .

On and on it goes, and as I’m heading out to clean the gutters, ladder perched squarely on my shoulder, it hits me. I’m distracting myself. Sabotaging myself. All morning long, all I’ve wanted to do was write, and now I realize that I’ve been doing everything BUT.

Last night as I was waiting for sleep to come for me, my Muse was merrily flittering through my mind, dropping tiny seeds and nuggets of ideas, encouraging them to grow. This does not surprise me, for that is how my Muse seems to like to work—waiting for the most inopportune time to drop an idea in my head, preferring the hour when I am busiest at work, or most tired at night. She’s a sadistic character, my Muse.

Now annoyed with myself, I replace the ladder in the garage with a soft grunt, and make a beeline to my laptop. No more fooling around, no more distractions. I woke up wanting to write, and write I shall.




. . . . .

Well, those gutters aren’t exactly going to clean themselves, are they?


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