deserts wide and inspirations deep

I go through fits of fervent inspirations, and spans of waning deserts. I’m in a place of having to write down what feels like every second thought. While it feels like an interruption it is also an invitation. An invitation to see what might be found outside my little fixed routine. That maybe once I finish this next project I won’t simply shrivel up from lack of creative notion and expression. 

I’ve written down much, as of late, in my long lived note filled with half finished thoughts,  beginnings and endings. Both things to return to and things to remember for another time. Because that ‘such a time as this’ seems to come around often, has a retuning quality about it. Always braced for the next gust of ‘take me away from here.’ Because I live inside of ‘how long till I leave,’ leaves a dust about my shoulders it does. 

So, as what feels to be a new form of normal, my inner poet tries everyday to be the one centre of stage. It’s a bit invasive, but I let it because I spent a long time trying to keep her shut up and out of sight. So for now, because I see no better way through this place, I let her run rampant through my sentences making a near mess of all I have to say. Both more seen and more perplexed at for it. 

In one hour writing the novel flows like rain, and the next it stifles into a halt. It’s the way of things, in some unknown irritating way, that one must go with the flow even when the flow is at a standstill. 

Breathing in and out, taking no more than a day at a time, its been the name of the game as of late. There are days where the words come with fever and much excitement, and there are days when they drip like water out of a leaky faucet, unreliable. Some days I write lots, even more than I realize, and some days I stare out the window. 

Really it’s the strangest season of my creative process I’ve yet to live through. From one day to the next it’s all up for discussion and interpretation, and then the next quiet, and soft. I have mornings where I wake to find myself brimming with fresh ideas and fresh eyes. I have afternoons that feel like a timeless trap of sluggish apathy. It oscillates. But it all works out in the end. It’s the most puzzling piece of it.   

But I find myself here where, I have to write the more I write. Let me try that again, the more I write, the more I let the words have their way, the more the words return to me and demand I write them down. It’s the strangest thing, I put more words to the novel and more keep tumbling out of me in other forms. And the poet, don’t get me started on that guy, she makes a wreck of most things I try to say with a straight face. But I can’t shut her up, so I’ve stopped trying. 

Deserts wide and inspirations deep. It’s an odd place to be.