Writing is such an odd business. On some days, I feel as if I am wading through mud. My addled brain has nothing of use in it. I write because I must write; it’s a job, and waiting for inspiration is no good at all.
On some days, my fingers move and my mind is leaping about, but I don’t really achieve anything. I’m just spinning my wheels.
And, on some glorious days, it all falls into place. The words are there, waiting for me. It’s as if someone has given me a Christmas present.
I have absolutely no idea where the good stuff comes from. It feels as if it has nothing to do with me, that I can’t even take credit for it. I am merely transcribing.
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
I have so much airy nothing. Sometimes it stays that way. Sometimes it does have a habitation, and a name.