They are fleeting moments. The planets aligned, the house is quiet, my fingers fly, and I am certain I have channeled a brilliance that transcends what meager skills I possess. I am convinced I am a genius. The great American novel is within my grasp. Eat your heart out J. K. Rowling, move over Hemmingway. F. Scott, please be a dear and fetch me a glass of champagne. Tickled pink, full of myself, I shut my laptop and pour giddy little me into bed where I dream of red carpets and accolades. Oh, my, is that a Nobel Prize?
The next morning I float on a silver-lined cloud to my desk, smiling as I open the file and read.
“Wait, what is this?”
Disbelief morphs into frantic desperation as I check time stamps and backups, searching in vain for the scintillating words written mere hours ago.
“Who wrote this crap?” I scream.
A soft chuckle mocks me, and I groan. I know the answer. This crap belongs to me.
I could be steps away from throwing in the towel, giving up, succumbing to the fear gnawing at the edges of my resolve, and hitting the delete key. My gut says this isn’t my ending, only my beginning.
Revisions promise to be grueling, requiring countless hours, working day-in and day-out, climbing my thankless mountain. I have a responsibility to honor my burning desire, and the stories the cosmos planted in my soul. They give me purpose, passion, and drive. They make me different. I renew my vow to out-last the lucky and out-work the lazy.
What dreams inspire your writing?
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer