There are times in your life when you must invoke the power of the squirrel.
And, as I am currently running around like a squirrel who has lost her winter nuts, this is clearly one of those times. Squirrels remember where they buried things months later. I can’t even find the ditty bag that I used in the laundry last week.
That’s not to say that things haven’t been good – in fact, they’ve been great! I’m settling into pretty much all three things in the Carrie Bradshaw trifecta, and have found some time to start reading again. (Earlier I finished Tangled by Carolyn Mackler and Outrageous Acts and Everyday Rebellions by Gloria Steinem. I have recently started Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. If you want to follow my reading without waiting for a blog update, you can also befriend me on Goodreads.)
In all of this kerfluffle though, I found myself pronouncing that a writer must lead an interesting life in order to write interesting things. And I received some push-back, because that idea was nuts. (Ba-dum chhhhh!)
I think, perhaps, what I should have said is that a writer must look for inspiration in the things that bring them joy. And pain. And hurt. And solace.
So even though I haven’t been able to put the pen to the page as much as I would like to lately, I’ve been discovering new things to be inspired by. And I think that, for now, will have to be just as good.
If not better.