No pressure. I'm going away for a few days with a fellow writer. A friend to inspire, bounce ideas around, someone to tell me what I just spent an hour writing, stinks!
Hours and hours with no laundry to get in the way, no phone calls, no dusting, no meals to fix. Now what can I say is keeping me from writing?
No excuses, I must write.
Grab a piece of paper with scribbled ideas. Try to make sense of the original idea. Maybe I'll take it in that direction, maybe it will take me on a bumpy obtuse path that leads me somewhere else. Who knows? What starts out as a straight forward thing, in my mind, often becomes something very different, ending up not even close to my original thought.
Inspiration, just the right music to create by, just the right windowed view. The perfect company. Maybe I'll be able to come up with something original after all.
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