“Imagination is the highest form of research.” ― Albert Einstein
I’m sitting here, staring at the screen; totally frustrated over inspiration that just won’t come.
I had so many ideas just waiting to be put into print, but I can’t seem to lay my hands on one right now. Elusive little buggers they are.
I thought I needed inspiration so I went web bashing and read some other people’s blogs. They led me to sites about creative writing, and they in turn led me to other literary playgrounds. The choice is endless, and I found so many great ideas lurking there.
Some people wrote of love, some people wrote of love lost. Others poured out their hearts in poetry and letters to no one in particular.
I’ve done all that – back when I was still working my way through the painful teenage years and everything was a drama.
I’ve written my poems of love – my “requiems to romance”.
I’ve pasted my poignant photographs in the album of me.
I’ve sent my “Letters to the Editor” espousing my theories on life, and while they may have been mainly related to riding motorbikes they still had relevance to my existence (there’s a parallel between the path one takes in life and the path one travels on two wheels – they’re both fraught with danger).
It’s just that tonight words fail me.
If this was a paying job it would be about now that I’d be getting really worried – “terribly vexed” as Commodus said in the movie “Gladiator” – because there’d probably be a deadline to meet and an Editor to placate.
But there isn’t, and I guess that’s the beauty of being a blogger.
No one really cares if there isn’t a fresh piece of prose available each day.
As long as we keep at it, and whenever the moment strikes put pixels to screen then things will be ok.
I love it.