The Writer's Inspiration Bureau

I love to write, but only when writing loves me. It's the contradiction most of the world lives with: you love something and it doesn't love you back, what do you do? Do you keep loving it or do you pretend you don't love it because it doesn't love you. That's when you have to choose, between the heart and the brain. However, when it comes to writing not loving me, I don't love it. 

When words flow smoothly from my head, onto my fingertips, and straight to the keyboard, finally on to the page, it's wonderful. It's fantastic when what I'm thinking unravels and untwists itself to create legible, understandable words. However, how about when my thoughts don't unravel themselves? What about when my thoughts are frivolous? What about when my thoughts aren't about anything important, but just about monotonous activities that I take part in everyday? 

What happens when I, the writer, stops thinking about now, the moment, but waits and waits for a better, more interesting tomorrow? 

What happens when my thoughts aren't thought-provoking anymore? What does that mean? Does it mean that I'm done with words? However, that's not possible, as I've loved words too much and too fast to get unattached. As Galileo said he couldn't be afraid of the night as he's loved the stars much too fondly, I can't be afraid of a little writer's block that's been building itself for months because I love words too much. Right? Or wrong? 

Why can't I unravel my thoughts? 

Like the story where the author, Elsie Brown, wrote in one of her stories of a writer who just couldn't get ideas and gets help from the ghosts of the Writer's Inspiration Bureau; I desperately need to borrow a idea ghost for a day or two. 

Every writer needs his muse, and mine must be nature.  During the summertime, the world becomes alive. The trees are green, the air is sticky with the sun's sweat, and the atmosphere is smiling down upon all of us. Just by smelling flowers in the air and tasting the lemonade the neighborhood kids sell, I want to write, observe, and write again. Then the autumn comes, with it's beautiful, sad leaves always falling. Writing's fine until then, a little difficult but nothing I can't handle. Then comes the dreadful winter, always so cold and dark. When that horrible, depressing weather comes in, I can't lift up a pen! My mind goes blank, and I spend all of my time wishing for the sun to come out. The comes spring, as it is now, and ideas begin to blossom but not bloom. Just little sentences, without the commas form through my keyboard. Just as the weather gets warmer and mother nature comes back to life, so do I. 

Thus, reader, I wrote this dramatic little blog post to get you to understand why I haven't wrote in a while. I just couldn't, it wasn't summer yet. However, now the weather is getting sunnier and brighter and so am I. Thanks for the patience, hopefully by April I won't long to be a character in Elsie Brown's novel. 

It all comes down to one fact: I love words, and words love me. This love, much the other loves, are seasonal. I must wait a little longer until my words and thoughts love me back yet.