Over the summer, I had a bad case of writer’s block. I had nothing, nada, zilch.
Looking for inspiration, I listened to a TED talk hoping to learn how writers found their spark. One lecture, had me mesmerized. Elizabeth Gilbert shared about poet Ruth Stone, how she “would run like hell home”, chased by a poem. She had to get to a piece of paper to write before the words thundered through her. If she didn’t write, it would be lost.
This happened to me last night. My vision was very detailed, so vivid. I thought that if I kept repeating the story, I wouldn’t forget.
This wasn’t a story about my daughter. This was about declaring love for another. I could see the expression on his face as he groomed his horse. I mustered my courage and professed my proclamation but it came too late. I left, driving in the rain. My heart was broken. I was headed to a coffee shop where I could console myself with a creamy, sweet cup of java.
The next chapter, I observed a woman being advised by a man. At first, he appeared youthful but he was old. He wore a thick blonde wig and had tufts of gray popping out at the temples (suspiciously, resembling Robert Redford, ha ha). They were the ones that had plotted the plan causing my loss.
The final scene, the man of my affection was reading a letter that exposed the truth. Just as I was to learn how this was going to end, I woke up. Dreams fade faster than you can catch them and this one was no exception. It drifted away, taking the story with it.
Dreams are meant to be chased; in slumber and in the real world.
Inspiration doesn’t emanate from people. We aren’t the creators but rather, we are allowed to capture when graced with divine intervention.
Who am I kidding, I’m not a writer, “but I play one on TV“, it’s merely a dream.