Inspiration?

It's been about a year since the last time I wrote anything--anything at all--poetry, shorts, novel, stream of consciousness--anything--much less submitted a piece for publication, or even workshopped an old piece. (Does this blog count? No.) Nothing but heartache, sickness and disillusionment has followed me since my last publishing, and with lack of inspiration, this leaves me, well, uninspired. So again, as today's events unfold and crumble, the thickness in my chest grows stronger, pulsating like a migraine, though a little more south of the chin. One would hope that in every story the grand finale results in a happy ending. But reality is everchanging, never satisfied with the status quo and travels within the dips and ditches along the road of life. And such is life for hope may bring wildflowers and dandelions along the path. But will my story have this happy ending? I don't know, but when this chapter ends, please let me know.


On another note, such enigmatic events will probably leave you to much imaginations. I have all of these thoughts and plots and characters and setting in such detail in my head, spinning, discombobulated, jumbled up in idea and reason. So one day when this brain of mine releases it's noose of words and language, I will finally be free.


I attended a reading last night of writers who are revered, and all of which, I admire separately for each individual contribution to my own technique, style, skill. These are my mentors, for they are award-winning artists in my own community as well as nationwide. Their words, like sweet syrup to my soul, are my music and make my ears sticky sweet. These writers are storytellers of years and years, and just hearing authors such as these read their own words is impressive, indeed. Good God, if this doesn't inspire me now, I don't know what will.