I have spent the wealth of recent years waiting for inspiration to strike. Waiting with my arms hugging my knees, watching the door, hoping the bell rings, keeping one eye on the phone. Waiting, praying, wishing, hoping for inspiration to fall out of the sky in a lightning storm of intensity.
Waiting for anything makes my edges raw, but I have chosen to sit here and wait for inspiration. No one forced me to be that girl. I just chose to be her in my writing. The one who waits. The one who doesn’t go after what she wants. The one who hopes life will just happen the way she wishes it would.
You can’t wait for something like inspiration. Inspiration is a terrible date. It doesn’t show up on time and ignores meet-up requests. When it does appear, it’s often wearing sweatpants, one shoe and holding an empty bottle.
You have to hunt down inspiration. You can’t make your writing contingent on whether inspiration shows. Do you want to write? Or do you want to wait?
On the days you let your fingers loose to carve up the page, you can’t wait for inspiration to meet you half way. You have to sling your Winchester over your shoulder and ferret out its hiding places.
Make inspiration come to the table to eat with you. Order a second course, a souffle for dessert and a fortune cookie to go. Inspiration is sneaky. It doesn’t ask for permission to be excused so don’t let it get up from the table without you.
I used to think it takes inspiration to write well. When I get lazy, I still fall into that circus tent of useless waiting. But it doesn’t take inspiration to write well. It takes dedication, work and a willingness to go to the page even when inspiration feels half the length of Texas away from you.
I was waiting for inspiration while I wrote this. I don’t know if it showed up, but the words did.