Leftovers

I want to write, but I don’t know what I want to write about. It’s like being hungry but looking into your pantry and refrigerator and seeing nothing but the same old stuff you’ve been eating.

So I stare, and I feel hungry. I eventually give up and walk away hoping the hunger inspires some wild, passionate craving, something that sends me running back to create magic in a flurry of fingers hitting the keyboard.

It hasn’t come. Not yet. I’m beginning to wonder if I just need to write. Something, anything. Good writers write no matter what they have to say. Good writing doesn’t often come from a place of random passion, and I know this. I know good writing comes from practice and stretching and just letting your brain relax and flow and accept that a jumbled mess sometimes needs to be worked out before the magic can show.

So I shall write.