Every now and then, I
don’t know where I got something.

It feels like I was standing at
a wall, that only looked like a wall,

and then, right there, where
the floor met the ceiling, there was a braided

silver-golden yarn that was
disappearing. I picked it up, and felt it pulling

back. And then, as I moved
back, and back, and back, the yarn moved

back, with me, from one side of the
wall to my side. The side I could see.

And there it was, sometimes in a
form, sometimes in heap of tangles and

unraveling strings. Other times, it’s
like a great dream, or not so great

dream, I can’t stop having until I
write it down. And others, there’s

one pretty note that feels like a
song, a piece of music, and I spend

an entire Sunday trying to make
something that was only supposed

to be a note into a melody. Or
maybe somebody else could hear the whole

song, but that one wasn’t for me. And
then there are all the rest

of the times sitting or standing at a
computer, or with notebook

in hand, feeling heart-ache and
headache, feeling that tense

exhaustion that comes with trying to
shape words out of

disappearing clay, and crumbling
stone or glass. I know it’s time

to take a break when the
self-encouragement stops, the cursing

stops, the attempts stop and
I’m just staring. And then I stand or sit

there for another one to five
hours anyway because I’m excited

about this, really want to see it
work, and maybe it will come to me

if I just don’t move or something. If
I move to the left. Or move to the

right. If I move the words around
this way and that. If I think about it this

way and that. If I listen to
music. Loud. Tranquil. Or Fast. If I listen to

silence. Open the blinds. Then
close the blinds. Talk it out loud. Feel

what the character feels. Close
the doc, open the doc. Look at it again.

And then write some words real
fast. Only to find, at the end of the day,

that the words or the story or
ideas are more far away than they were

before. And so, if this was the day
this was all going to click

together or not at all, eyes are
closing now, people are hungry now,

and I have missed my chance. And
after it comes to life, or it doesn’t,

I’ll wonder if I needed to spend all
that time staring, and jumping, and

shaping, and pouring words after
all. And then I’ll do it again, because

sometimes to see the whole
thing, that’s the only way. And that image,

or feeling, or word, or place that
started things, doesn’t end up in the

finished piece at all. It goes from
moments when it just works, and

you don’t know why, to
hours spent working on something, that

was never meant to
work. And as much as making things can be a

lonely business, it can help to know that
creation has some magic

in it. But when the muses stop, or the
gods go, or the inspiration

leaves, you have to look back at the
whole thing. You have to

look back at the whole thing and
see that you were the one that stood,

sat, and worked on something to the wee hours. You
were the one who

was there, whether the magic
was or wasn’t, whether that spark was

or wasn’t, whether your own
confidence was or wasn’t. And you feel

sure now that the only-sometimes sparks of the
divine didn’t make

this work. Those fleeting
waves of enthusiasm didn’t make this work.

And those occasional collisions
with inspiration didn’t make

this work.

You did.

Written By Nika Patrice.
Attribution: Nika Patrice.
© August 2022. Originally in Wonderer’s Notebook Collection. All Rights Reserved.