What Is...?

Where does inspiration come from? A book, a movie? Your own writing? Rereading over something old? Reading something new? Traveling to someplace new? Revisiting someplace old? Creating a new character? Falling in love with one you forgot? Music. With or without lyrics? Or silence? Looking at photographs or staring at a blank wall? Dreams - nightmares? Does it come from the weather - a ray of sunlight casting a shadow on your book? Does it come from the rain, making puddles in your path? Talking, or listening, eavesdropping? Does it come from someone or something? A habit? An event? An everyday thing? What is inspiration? And where does it come from?

[111 words]

What Goes On Before The Write

The playlist was going on all day, blaring out sound from the speakers Occasionally, she'd sing it out loud. Stare at the document, close it again. Get up. Walk around the house. Gulp down three glasses of water. Then she'd return and draw, make her character come to life, create a visual impression of him. More music. Some TV to inspire. A talk with someone, discuss the details, sketch it out some more. Ask questions to herself, to others, seek answers and ideas which could be implemented. And occasionally that stroke of longing, of desire, to write it down, and that moment when you said this was it. You bring the document back up again. You ignore what's already in it. And write.

[123 words]

Silent Waves

She rubbed one foot over the other to kick off a few ants, chased a little brown beetle away from her papers with pencil and stared out over the landscape. Lots of empty benches, trees that were years old. There was a family a little further up, with a kid riding his bike up and down the pathway. Mostly, it was completely quiet except for the soft swishing movement of the waves and the sound of the breeze rustling the leaves of the trees. The odd bird squawked, a pelican flew overhead. The blue sky was ever so slowly being swallowed up by rain clouds, and still it was as peaceful as it had ever been. Silence and serenity. It was so beautiful, such an awe-inspiring place, in the eyes of the writer, to pick up a pencil and let the words flow, coincidentally about the ugliness and brokenness of her favourite character.

[153 words]

What is it a writer does?

What is it a writer does? Hide in a dark corner, never to come out? Work by candle and ink, never keyboard and mouse. Do they take over the coffee shops, scribble out plans on a dozen napkins, mull thoughts over ten coffees or other hot drinks? Are they the ones who take a stroll in the park, sit down on a log somewhere and just read from other novels, hunting for inspiration? Maybe they don't read at all. Just sit and stare, apparently doing nothing while their mind is at work tirelessly on plot, formulating characters as you walk by, maybe a characteristic based off you. Do they have boxes and boxes of scrap paper, all used? A million excercise books half filled? A hundred chewed pencils, highlighters of every colour. Or is it just one pen and pad, they hold?

[142 words]

Random Yeah

You know when you get inspired by something else you see and you get really excited about the ideas it provokes in your mind? And you think 'yeah, I can do that! I am so gonna do that. That is awesome.' And you keep telling yourself that. You put it onto your to-do list and you say you'll do it in a week when you have spare time. Yeah? Then eventually it piles up and up and you know that deep down you really wanna do it and you have ideas for it, but then you keep deliberately putting it off and off, knowing it'll be just another cause of procrastination, and whatever. But it's still distracting you and you wanna try it? Well that there, that's me now. :)

[129 words]

Distracted Dreams

Relief is a great feeling. It's amazing. You can be so stressed, so worn out, so unhappy, until the relief comes and it changes everything. It makes you feel good. Like this huge weight has been lifted off of your shoulders and it feels as though you can do anything. You can win. You can sleep. Sleep is fantastic. Amazing. Beautiful. The world of darkness that sweeps over you isn't dark at all. Your dreams may be filled with colour and inspiration, despite what you may or may not remember of them when you wake up. Dreams and sleep are perfect.

[101 words]

Afterthought

Cameron waved him off with a smile, before turning and heading in the opposite direction. Not a complete waste of time, he decided. In fact, this could work to his advantage, if he put some effort forwards this time. It could all turn horribly nasty for one person, and he found a stupid hope that it would be for his new acquaintance. He grinned, shoving his hands in his pockets and picking up his pace. Yes, he was perfect. He would do just fine. Curious enough to keep interested, a little scared, but determined, someone he was sure would stick by him, being the inspiration that he was. He chuckled. Yes, he didn't know what he'd just got himself in for by giving that friendly introduction. But he'd brought it all on himself.

[133 words]

Hard Work

She had to write. She wanted to write. She even wanted to edit - and that was a first. But where? Where to find the spark? That little bit of incentive, motive. Inspiration. Innocence-inspiration. Innospiration. Did it exist? Why couldn't she feel it in her fingertips? She'd been hunting in all the corners, truly. Yet she couldn't bring herself to reread and delete and write over and edit and unmask those words. Even though she wanted to. Even though there was that desire. There was still no 'pick up the pen and start' move. Yesterday, she'd said today. The day before that, she'd said yesterday. Today, she said tomorrow. Tomorrow would have to be it. She'd have to force it out. No more putting it off. If she wanted to write, she needed to put in the hard work. And maybe, just maybe, it would pay off.

[147 words]

Wall Clock

She sat with the pen laying limply between her fingers, eyes staring drearily at the clock as the second hand went around clockwise again. Another minute passed. Feeling uninspired was now a common feeling. A common feeling she disliked. There had to be an easier way to go about it. As the minute hand moved ever so slightly, her idea clicked into place. Time passing. That would be the fulfilling interval in-between the two paragraphs. She began typing away, urging desire to do a word count every few seconds. She waited until she came to the end of her fifth line. How strange, that one normal, bland, ordinary wall clock could inspire such an enthralling paragraph. She did the word count. She'd made the word limit. Success was at her disposal. Her entry was ready to send, and she had high hopes on publication.

[144 words]

Dear Writer

Dear Writer,

I had no idea you felt this way, and apologise for any inconvenience. I have shared your stories to the web, it is up to you to advertise them. On the two occasions you are talking about, you attempted to complete a story within the final hour of the day - and it is not my fault you leave things so late. I have given you nothing but a lovely atmosphere in which to dissolve, and your so called loyalty is a mere habit. I do not have excuses as to why I uninspire you because I inspire you quite a lot. Am I not the reason you've come up with 70 stories so far this year? As for the white space - you put it there - not my problem. And I do share thoughts with you - if you dare look hard enough to seek them. I have also brought you 6 followers and would at least call this "some" followers. I can't expect you to enjoy my company, I am only a blog. But that's fine if you expect mine, I won't return it.

Ungratefully,

Blog

[191 words]

Dear Blog

Dear Blog,

I dislike the fact you don't give me any bright ideas one after the other day after day. I have given you nothing but loyalty, despite the two occasions you wiped the entries I wrote. I do apologise for the small number of days I have posted late entries I'd written earlier, but I had excuses. You have no excuses as to why you uninspire me. I thought your white space would give me help. It hasn't. I thought you'd be jumping at the chance of sharing some of your thoughts with me, so I can in turn share them with the world. You haven't. I thought the least you could do was bring me followers. I'm not even two digits yet. I thought I'd enjoy your company. I don't.

Sincerely,

Writer.

[134 words]

Unwanted

She fiddled the pen in her hands, wondering what to put down onto the paper. She had read not envy, but admire, those other writers. The types of writers that could turn written words into whispers. She sighed, rolling the pen around once again. The ideas were supposed to be all around her - in every object, every person and every tune. So why were they so hard to find most days? Just to string together an idea to add to her short collections was proving difficult, sometimes repetitive. Why? For some, the ideas came every minute of every hour, many left discarded for a later date. Why? Being the writer she believed herself to be, were the ideas so minimal, so flat? Why? Her imagination was so blank. Was it tiredness that overwhelmed her? Despite the shows she watched, despite the books she read, despite the stories she wrote for inspiration... the ideas were still turning to dead ends. Like an unwanted writer's block, those dead ends were unwanted.

[170 words]