Inspiration is a fickle mistress. She flits in and out of our lives, seemingly at random, serving little notice before her course changes yet again. She wears many masks, often hidden from our view. We sit and we wonder what these feelings are that well up inside of us. We never see inspiration there, in the guise of a song or a movie, of a quote or a tweet. We obsess over the tangible, and it never occurs to us to question what drove us to those obsessions.
I started writing 10 years ago. It started as an exercise in self-discovery. I wanted to see if I could actually finish a whole book. 400,000 words later I had 2 and more importantly, my answer. They’re full of plot holes, poorly drawn characters, and enough grammar mistakes to make my 12th grade English teacher blush. But for all their warts, I can go back and read them and get wrapped up in all of the same emotions that drove me to write them in the first place. It’s as if they were somehow transferred into the words on the page. I got them out of me, and put them into their own place. They’re safe there, and I can visit them if I want to.
I’m writing a third novel now. The inspiration still comes and goes, as fleeting and random as ever. Age has made me a little wiser, though, and I’ve learned to grab onto her with both hands whenever I feel her presence. I let her drag me wherever she wants me to go. Most of the time, I plow through another few chapters of the next revision of the book. Sometimes, however, she takes me far away, to a place that has nothing to do with anything else I’m writing. That’s why I created a blog. I want a place where the inspiration can dwell. I’ll visit her here, and I’ll follow her where she leads me.
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