There are days when writing doesn’t come easily. When words are elusive, moving too quickly to catch like a hummingbird in my garden unable to settle on a single flower. When I sit in front of the computer screen and stare at the blank page, searching for something, anything to write about.
Surely there must be something.
And so I sit and wait for inspiration. I sort through my mental card catalogue of ideas, thoughts and memories, searching for a title that grabs my interest, piques my curiosity, calls out to be noticed.
No thoughts, no stories, no creative sparks.
Not one thing.
I drove to Staples tonight. It was my third trip there in a week. This time it was thin markers, a pair of scissors (why, exactly, is it a pair of scissors when you only buy one?) some glue sticks and a three hole punch. I caught the eye of another mother scouring the aisles for paper punched with four holes. Is there such a thing as paper with four holes?
I didn’t think so.
It was late and dark and the car was wonderfully quiet and I found myself sitting there in the silence, allowing the nothingness to just be. And then it came to me.
Start at the beginning.
And so I will.