So I set myself up to write. I pour the wine, I light the candles, I turn on my lava lamp, and turn down my other lights. I sit at my computer, my iTunes playing my most evocative songs, I open internet explorer only to dictionary.com and Wikipedia.
Then opening the files for my unfinished stories, I wait for the ideas to unfold, the inspiration to fill me, and the words to rolls forth.
For a while tonight, it worked. Good thing, as I haven't really worked on these stories (novels in progress actually, two of them, one contemporary, one fantasy) in months. But them my mind begins to wander. Which is why I have them both open, their very different contexts and voices allowing my mind to wander on different paths. Even still, I think about my own life, my own past, my own future, and the words that fill my head are not meant for my stories. So I open facebook and send out messages I maybe shouldn't to boys from my past. Look through pictures of times I missed. Open Gmail and see if anyone is around to chat (they aren't). Start texting to see if anyone responds (some do, but not for long, they are out, busy).
I listen to the music and gaze into my undulating lava lamp and think about how I should be writing. But I am writing, my mind says, just not the fiction I am supposed to be spinning tonight.
I love it when it comes. The words spill out as if from someone else trapped in my mind, telling of their experience, with my hands trying to keep up with their voice. But when the voice stops speaking to me, it's a painful process, forced out stuttering and uncooperative.
Maybe it’s been too long since I last tapped into the syrupy flow of words and they have all congealed at the tap, stopping the stream. Or maybe I’m not trying hard enough to force them forth. I don’t know the answer, only that I miss the effortless way the stories sometimes shoot from my fingertips, restrained only by my ability to type them out quickly enough. .