What is the process of creation? Does it bubble out of serious devotion? Hard work and strict routine? Specific skill sets? Frustration and tedium? Thin air?

It is the meditation of writing that I miss. This slump that holds the stories in my head behind bars will dam me up and I will surely spill over. Give me some inspiration to poke at the concrete barrier of writer’s block. Motivation is awarded, it seems, and I’ve been ignored.

Out of silence, noise shivers forth. From darkness, light rips through. On cold metal does heat dream of dancing. So from what do I emerge as a storyteller? My title as author requires an ego to hold on to. The vacancy of my self lets slip the juice of my stories. How can I be a god to these characters when I am not even an ‘I am’? That is, the fingers that tickle this keyboard are impulses, fueled by a mind lost in a dream. I cannot even find the way through my own story, let alone write one down.

Stories are mountains that I stare at, mesmerized by what life they may contain. It is the pricking of the pine when I attempt to hold it that sends me back home. The attempted wandering in the forestry of mine creative manifestations, that is writing, is so directionless that I worry it not being read.


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