Inspiration is not a regular visitor.

It’s like a distant relative turning up out of the blue a few times a year, bringing with them treats and a wonderful time for all. Then they leave, and disappear off the face of the Earth for a few months.

Meanwhile, you sit at home twiddling your pen, trying to release your imagination but unable to without that one trigger.

When all is blue, and your bin is overflowing with scrunched up ideas, poems, prose, promises…

You hear a knock on the door.

You race down the stairs, fling open the door, and a smile begins to grow on your face.

In flows a torrent of colour and brightness, rainbows and swirling words.

Your smile turns into a laugh as the words begin to squiggle around and make sentences.

The sentences start to pulse and breathe, and you can hardly take it all in. It’s so overwhelming, so much perfection and wonder and light.

Then without warning the colour starts to fade.

The words become fuzzy and displaced.

The door begins to close.

In efforts you grab the handle, try to tug the door open again.

It’s no use. Inspiration can never stay long and you know it.

Even so, the feeling of elevation is too much to give up.

The door shuts, leaving you standing in the dull hallway.

You look down, just in time to catch the last, shimmering glimpse of your inspired words darkening to black ink on your notepad.

You smile again, and head back up the staircase to your desk. You know these words will never be edited. They were perfect from the moment they burst through the door and leapt onto your paper.

You read them through one last time before turning to a new page.

Blankness stares back at you as you bend your head and touch your pen nib to the page.

You settle down and switch to writing mode, shutting out the world around you.

But all the while your ears are pricked, waiting for that special knock on the door.

Maybe next time, you’ll remember to use the door stop.



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