One of the most frustrating experiences in the world is having the time to be creative and not being able to create. Thoughts and imagination stalled.
A prairie plateau reaching far and away in front of you with nothing but brown sand at your feet.
Even the sky is empty.
Or, it’s like a big blank block of concrete placed vertically in front of you, so close it causes your eyes to cross.
So you dig around in old journals or those scrap pieces of paper you keep at the bottom of your purse for a morsel to use as a springboard of thought.
But to no avail.
You search around in the recesses of your memory in search of a childhood anecdote to share, something whimsically nostalgic. But no.
And the view outside your window hasn’t changed since last time you wrote about it except to say that now there is MORE snow. And there is only so many ways to expound upon “white”.
I’ve read books written by authors about this very thing. A loss of words is nothing to be afraid of. All of us, even Shakespeare must have been rendered creatively impotent and one point or another.
I just wish inspiration didn’t happen at the most inopportune of moments, like in the middle of the night when I’m half unconscious and I’m certain I’ll remember my idea in the morning. But don’t.
Or at the precise moment during a funeral or wedding when I lose control over my tear ducts.
Or in the middle of a conversation when stopping and writing would be a socially inadequate not to say severely insensitive.
I must start keeping little discrete notepads on my person. Something that slips unobtrusively in my pocket so that when inspiration does strike I can make a note or two…
then use it to chip away at that stubborn piece of concrete that looms before me when I want to create but can’t.
What do you do? Where do you look for your inspiration? Who is your muse? And how do you conjure up that wonderful expressive force that you call your own?