When that inspo strikes

Next to reading, writing was one of my first real loves. I began writing short stories when I was in second grade. I wrote my first “book” in third grade. It was about two frogs. I loved frogs. I still have it. The love for writing continued and grew along with my appetite for reading. In my sophomore year of high school, when I had started at my new school and was anti-social, I wrote my first “real” book. That story and I have an interesting relationship. I have scrapped and rewrote it so many times that the current iteration isn’t even recognizable to the original. That’s okay. I still have the original, because for those of you unaware of a particular quirk of mine, I write out everything on paper first. Everything. Every paper throughout many years of school. Every blog post. Every idea, short story, long story, yoga sequence, to-do lists…you name it. It’s what I do. It’s how my brain works.

This is not the post I’ve been intending to write for a while, but I’ve long-since abandoned the notion that life happens in the order you want or plan it to. This is a long wind-up to the point, but I want to talk a little about reconnection and inspiration. I haven’t written anything of fiction in over a year. I stopped making time for it. There are so many other things to do in life, you know? The thing about real passions, real loves…they never just leave. They wait. They bide their time. The are patiently waiting for you to come to your senses and get your shit together and return.

A little over a week ago, the nagging feeling tugged at me. The desire to write something that wasn’t an Instagram post or a blog post or a grocery list pulled at me so strongly that I got out the last writing project I had been working on. It sat on my table, unopened, for a few days, but I would glance at it. I thought about it. Last Thursday, I began readingΒ Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert. I won’t go into great detail right now because a review will come later, but it has been eye-opening and inspiring. I came to the conclusion that no matter what was holding me back I needed to start writing again. Get the creative juices flowing again, so to speak. An idea would come, or it wouldn’t.

Friday, an idea came. I acknowledged it. I thought, hey, this could be interesting. I did nothing. The next evening, I was filled with a restless energy I called boredom. I tried watching a movie. Nope. Tried tv. Nope. Tried reading. Nope. I blamed it on having too much time on my hands. I wanted to see people but at the same time didn’t want to hang out. I called my mother and complained about this grand boredom. I pulled out past writings. Short stories. Projects that I had abandoned. The manic energy in me started to slow. Friday’s idea tugged at me. I sat down and wrote notes about it. My idea. What it would consist of. After, I was calm. It hadn’t been boredom. It was the desperate need for something to be brought forth onto paper.

This was much longer that I planned. My point. Pay attention. Don’t push aside the parts of you that make you great. When inspiration strikes, don’t ignore it or be so wrapped up in yourself that you fail to recognize it. Grab hold of that sucker and see where it takes you. You can be for damn sure that I’m doing just that.

Namaste Darlings.

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