I often think of writing. I day dream of how therapeutic it is to run my fingers over the keys and have something pour on the screen that is not foreign to my soul. It is not work. It is not a copy of someone or something else. The words belong to me and me alone. It is my perception of art and mine alone. It is snarky comments and love letters and tales of comic mischief. It is a work of love and passion and inspiration.
So why is it so very hard to connect to the inspiration? My life is certainly not dull. I am part of my very own love story, my offspring challenge my every breath and our travels are nothing if not worthy of a wordy tribute. Yet my collection sits stagnant.
I may seek the answer for as long as the heart seeks the definition of perfection. That ever evasive, constantly changing kaleidoscope of beauty and mercy.
I crave inspiration.
I want to hear the click clack of the keys and see the stark white screen disappear.
So where is it? Where is my muse? Why can’t I just find the magic that makes me move to the nearest electronic and tell my tales? If you’ve found the secret I beg you to share.
I promise not to tell.
My Idiotic Bliss 
There’s no magic formula, no trick, or hack, or app.
Sometimes it’s the sheer bloody-minded fucking hard work of sitting down each day, no matter what, no excuses, no waiting for my muse to show up, and writing something. Eventually you will break through, and the juices will flow swiftly and smoothly again … until they don’t.
Rinse and repeat.
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