Waiting for inspiration. Or not waiting for it. Going quietly about life as if inspiration can be counted upon to strike one squarely in the forehead, as if it did not sometimes require to be energetically pursued, grasped by the tail, wrestled to the page, as if I did not know that the writers who do anything are the ones to stick to their writing whether they feel inspiration or not.
Not that I’ve wrestled any inspirations today. I spent a long, dim day before the fire reading Great Expectations, listening to falling sleet, and watching icicles begin to dangle from the eaves. My blanket crackled with static electricity, and the doorknobs shocked me when I let cats out and in.
The night, they say, will be full of the crack of branches weighted with layers of ice; they say power lines will be down and pipes will burst and we will awaken to a cold and dirty world.
In order to awaken, however, one must sleep. So that’s the plan.