Writing about writing and about wanting to write is the lull I find myself right now.
Finished with one story, packed away politely and ready to travel, I’m left with, well, the leftovers. Wanting to DO something, write something, be something. create something, move something.
But I’m a fly stuck in the sticky paper of awaiting something.
Something, anything. Inspiration, a moment, a muse, a knock on my door. I’m stuck here waiting for a rain drop on my head, a lightning bolt of something to jar me from my throne were I sit and write about writing about wanting to write.
What does the farmer’s almanac say about winter this year?
I can’t even focus on writing about writing about wanting to write.
Clicks are all around me to distract me and keep me off-balance.
One good story line, one good character, one good phrase could capture me and hold me tightly. One good word or vision could set me on that road again. Start it all up so I can live the life again. So I can do what I love again.
But company just left, and she was a doozie. There is dust to wipe out, twists and turns to sweep off the floor, and a trail of CIA files, coffee cups and snot filled Kleenex litter my house from her adventures.
So maybe taking a few days to look back on the memories we made, that character and I, and revel in the highs and lows she brought me might not be all that bad.
And hell, who cares if my inspiration at the moment comes from writing about writing about wanting to write?
I feel that old familiar itch just under my skin as it is. Something is brewing, just there on the horizon the clouds are forming. A drop of rain is bound to hit my head and carry me away on another adventure soon enough.