I want to write, I need to write, I feel the itch in my fingertips and the inspiration begging to be unleashed… however, I’m blocked.I don’t know what to write about, I don’t have a single topic to discuss, or maybe I have too many to pinpoint into a singular post.
I don’t have any crazy stories about ridiculous encounters with people who are so stupid they couldn’t solve a Rubik’s cube if it were all one color (I read that online somewhere and LOVED the quote, I’m just not sure where it came from, if you know I'd give them all the credit for it)
I could write about my birthday month shenanigans, you only turn 30 once after all… well biologically anyway, I think I might turn 30 at least 5 more times.I’ve celebrated by having a pizza party at a friend’s house, going to Vegas with the family (mom’s side), celebrated with a barbeque with friends and my dad’s side of the family, and will be going to LA this weekend to celebrate again with my cousin who I’ve just recently became reacquainted with through the wonders of facebook.
I supposed I could take a dark turn and talk about how my great grandmother is dying and I don’t think I’ll get to see her again before her spirit leaves her body to join family members that have gone before her.How if I can be half of the woman she was, I think I’ll be doing okay.She’s 101 years old and still mentally proficient; she’s surrounded by children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren who adore her.The last time I went to visit her she was telling my dad and I about her first speeding ticket…at 80 years old!She can still tell a story that will make you laugh until you cry, it’s incredibly sad that her body is finished before the rest of her is.
I can write about how creatively blocked I feel when it comes to writing my novel that I’ve only been working on since 2008 and I’m only 60 pages into it. Its a story about love and how it doesn't matter how old or young you are, it makes you crazy... in this case it will be crazy in a good way, but part of me feels like its going in a direction that would rip off any Nora Roberts, Susan Elizabeth Phillips, Danielle Steele novel I've ever read... plus is pulls so much from my real life (in the most rose colored glasses sort of way) that part of me wants to wait for something interesting to happen to keep writing and part of me says SHUT IT DOWN its too much of a fantasy diary and even though I've changed the names and events people are going to recognize themselves in it.
There are always my baking adventures and my drives up and down the Coast that I could also photo-document the journeys. I love being in the kitchen and decorating cupcakes, I have no formal training, but some really cool tools that make me look like I have way more skills than I actually possess, I could say the same about my awesome camera and how its nearly impossible to take a bad picture with it.
But none of it bites; none of it inspires me to write paragraph after paragraph, none make me want to bare my soul in a very public manner on any of those topics.
Nothing seems to be gripping my heart and mind.
Where is my muse damn it?It’s not hiding in the bottom of my Coors Light, and it’s not starring in either of the Netflix movies I’ve watched tonight… It isn’t hiding in my camera or in my markers or glue sticks… Maybe my muse has concealed herself in my guitar, I haven’t picked her up in a few days and my calluses are going away, which just means it will be even harder to try to learn to play.
Perhaps I need to stop looking for outside influences to open the flood gates to my creativity.Maybe my muse lies in wait inside me; inside my heart, inside my mind, inside my guts.Maybe I need to stop waiting for her to come to me and just open myself up to inspiration.