“I see you are frustrated,” says the muse within me. “Let the words come honestly and freely, with playfulness and clarity.”
The inflated critic within me stifles my thoughts and keeps them stuck, unlike me, and untrue. When I breathe well with a relaxed posture, Ludivico Einaudi’s passionate, contemplative piano music in my ears, I feel less like tearing up the pages and starting over again and again. I say, “Thank you critic for your feedback and for your desire to improve my writing, but I disagree with some of your complaints.”
Sometimes I do nothing that seems important. I’ll look at snow eddies through the window and daydream, drink a cup of breakfast tea, or read books that contain the honesty I admire. And these are the solitary times when new ideas are gathered. Without strain, the words lightly float toward me like little lily pads, slowly, slowly.
Where does good writing come from? I believe that it comes from a life well-lived. It doesn’t have to be filled with incredible adventures, with skydiving and leaping off cliffs, or owning yachts, and mansions that rise up into the sky, or an impressive collection of beautiful books, or fifty friends. To me, it means living authentically, kindly, and simplistically, like holding a fallen flower with its bent stem and tiny dew drops, careful of the petals, holding it as a child, and forgetting the right things.
May peace be with you, dear readers.
Who/what are your greatest inspirations?