Blocked, stopped, blank, unfinished, and bare.
That computer screen stands in front of you.
Glaringly white, blank, glowing freshly.
What happens when the blogging inspiration doesn’t strike when it’s wanted?
When the center isn’t found.
When meeting in the middle, means go to the other end of the spectrum of no ideas.
Do not pass go.
I actually like the occasional blog block.
Because it means that there are thoughts.
Building up, germinating, percolating, simmering in the background.
And all it takes is one small click, one moment, one bit of calm.
For them to all tumble out, falling over each other in eagerness to be seen.
Pens can’t keep up, notes fly off the pad.
Thoughts scattered everywhere like beads from a broken necklace.
Have you had?
Notes in every room that you’ve entered?
Inspiration in spurts.
Scratched on paper so fast you can’t read your own writings?
Because when inspiration does strike
It not only simmers, it boils over, sliding down the sides of the pot so fast no cloth can clean up the words, the thoughts, the ideas that clamour for attention.
And the oddest things can create inspiration if you let them.
Of course you have seen.
Sunlight through the leaves, the air so fresh.
Fields soaked, and sodden in morning mist.
Leaves twisted onto trees, dripping liquid night onto day.
Click of the camera, tick of the engine cooling.
But has it inspired you to do something about it?
Cat bouncing, floor echoing.
Clump of dark colored felt, now only faintly resembling a mouse.
Big ears once, string for guts, drawn on a invisible string.
The eagerness he shows to chase, to let reality go.
To believe.
Can that be transformed?
New haircut.
Fig newton cravings.
Garden gazing, planning, thinking of the future.
To bed garden, to bed.
Sleep tight.
Wake to memories that demand to be written.
Photographs tidy in a row, lined up for perusal.
Pick me, pick me.
Orderly lines now, one at a time.
There will be room for all.
When you are chosen go to the head of the line.
Ideas that sounded so good.
You were shattered by their brilliance.
Filtered in the daylight of a day forward, d iscarded, tossed, disdained.
New ones presented like fresh debutantes, a ll feathers, and fluff.
No fluff here, we are made of sterner stuff.
But giddiness will attempt to rule.
Ideas will be borrowed, time is a essence that smells so sweet.
Bitter at the end, when the clock ticks, the minutes pass, the idea lurks behind something bigger.
Patience.
Sit, and it will come to you, just like a cat, it doesn’t like to be approached.
There now do you feel it’s cold nose, pressing up against your leg?
The idea, it’s here, now do something with it.
