I've mentioned how much I love books, reading, and stories. ("We get it, Lisa," you must be thinking. I know.) But reading books for me is more than enjoying a narrative; it's the prose that I obsess over, too. I love good writers' writing--when they violate punctuation rules, spell dialogue phonetically, and come up with their unique styles. Style, voice...they're tough things to have.
I love the art of writing. I love the English language. I'll never master it, and I like that about it. I'll be learning it forever and ever, and blogging is part of that process--what should I write about, and how should I write it? I feel so much satisfaction when I am able to post something that comes from my heart and is articulated well, creatively written, funny, didactic, meaningful...I love being proud of something I've written.
And other times, like right now, I mistakenly believe I hate writing. I can't think of a single thing in this indefatigably fascinating world--full of succulent, delicious, tantalizing, mouth-watering things--that I want to write about. Or is it the other way around...are there too many thoughts swimming around in my little brain that they're all just drowning each other, and I'm left with nothing?
One of the best feelings in the world is being able to strike when the Iron of Inspiration is hot. Yet, often, it's a cold war between Fleeting Thought and Smug Cursor--oh, how it taunts me with its blinking.
I wish there was a way to manufacture inspiration as I fancy it, to yield creativity on a whim, for ideas to come a-knocking when they're beckoned.
Maybe I'll figure it out someday...