As it happens, inspiration for me comes in spurts. I have moments where I want to do nothing more than write, to get those ideas out on paper, until my wrist is throbbing and my fingers numb. Other times I have lines or ideas that I just need to get out of my head (losing the random pieces of paper I’ve written these on is tragic) and occasionally there are occasions where I couldn’t write about what I did that week, that day or even the hour before. I would like to think that the first of the three is the most promient but the biggest problem I have is that it is not.
In fact, it’s a very skittish place to be. Meaning, the slightest thing can distract me and the inspriation floats away like a soap bubble, popping when I desperately reach out for it again. Last week I got five-odd pages of actual writing down, more than just synopsis or ideas but the actual beginning of the dang book, the start of the opening chapter. I think it’s rather good and I’m thrilled about it but in a second it was gone. No fault of my own really and when it comes down to the facts I am immensely glad that it happened as it did.
See, I had my heating pad with me as I lay in bed writing and while I thought it was off, it was not. The cord had broken and my husband walked in and found it starting to catch the entire mattress on fire. It’s astounding how envolved I can become, oblivious to even going up in flames.
So now I search for that moment again, feeling lucky to still be alive to do so and with a place to do it in.
I know once I get over the fear, there will be no stopping.