Last week I had a rush of creativity. For four days, I wrote and wrote — pages! And I planned to write anymore. I spent several evenings angry that I couldn’t type faster.
Then it vanished. I’ve become familiar with this cycle. I go through it several times a year. I usually don’t know what ends one. This time I do. Life ended it.
One second I’m thinking about some world where an old man is teaching his great x 4 grand niece magic; the next I’m thinking about money. It’s always money. How will I ever afford this or that? How can I dig out of debt? Is it better this way or that way? Then it’s work and it’s stress. How will I complete this or that or the other thing that recently came onto my plate to do.
Couches. Lately, I’ve been trying to apply money to the problem of not having a couch and for whatever reason that is enough to lock up my imagination.