In the morning is best time for me to write because it is the least bouncy, the least double and I can type fast enough to accomplish something, which is my goal. I just got up, fed the cat and made myself a cup of coffee. Thanks to the mother of invention for the one cup coffee maker, making my life much simpler when it needs to be. (I do my part and recycle these things and use muslin filters.)
Because I don’t want to drone on incessantly about my situation and at least appear to not to be focused solely on my own life, I clicked on the little pencil that asks “looking for inspiration?” in wordpress. Indeed I am, so I did and the picture of a battered up, rusted out safe popped up with the line “a picture tells a 1000 words”, tell its story. I suppose I could make something up, and tell a story of a safe that once held the valuable contents of someone’s life, but there’s a part of me that just isn’t in it.
Does this mean that I’m not cut out to write? Does it mean that I am relegated to navel gazing as my sole source of inspiration? In my insular world that exists mostly of me and my cat, that’s the way it appears. I don’t want to comment on news reports that have been tweeted and retweeted to death, and written about by people sharper and more knowledgeable than I am on these subjects. That’s not the sort of person I am. I’d like to write about subjects and objects that catch my eye, and yes myself, stuff that exists in the world I live in.
So, yes, I am looking for inspiration, but if it’s random pictures that are supposed to do the trick, thanks but I’ve got lots of my own. For instance: