Inspiration often sits at the edge, teetering between busy-isease (sickness of modern times) and sweatpants wearing days.
Many artists would debunk the myth that creativity is something that can’t be worked, talked into, argued into existence.
Maybe I’m a strange writer.
I believe inspiration cannot be forced.
It can be coerced out of its shell.
It can be lured like a wagging rattle in front of a babe.
It can be tempted with sweet treats like good reads, lying around and being unproductive.
Inspiration does not respond at gunpoint.
It does not like to be shouted at like an old school teacher banging her ruler atop a wooden desk.
But it will come, if you let it.
If you schedule it in, as time spent watching the sunrise and set.
If you be still like the trees before a storm.
If you’re so quiet you can hear the sound of a page turning.
If you stare out a window and have enough patience to watch as the clouds disappear into the blue sky.
There she will find you
Calm,
ready,
impatient,
but grateful for her presence
at last.
