At times it’s difficult to find the inspiration to write.  Perhaps that’s worded incorrectly; at times it’s difficult to find the inspiration to write something good.  I have roughly three pages of senseless garbage, every three or four lines I start a new story, a new post–hoping to hit a vein or highway that leads me somewhere interesting.  But by the end of my session I’m left with a word document entitled “Document1” and nothing to show for it.

It’s not for lack of content, either.  I became an uncle this week, where I slept on various combinations of uncomfortable furniture for eight hours, sanitized my hands three or four thousand times and paced the hallway, counting the twelve steps from our waiting room to the door to the birthing unit.  My job is going through new management, a hostile takeover suitable for MTV reality TV shows.  I substitute every week and I have a psychotic cat.  Other writers would kill for the amount of inspiration I have–at the very least, sell their souls.  Yet all I am able to do is stare at a blinking cursor, marking the wasted seconds, amidst a sea of incoherent rambling.

I’ve always been able to sit down, write and eventually something suitable has flowed from my fingers.  Seemingly out a nowhere, a story would click in my mind and the words would pour out.  It’s odd to sit here and wait for muscle memory to kick in, and have nothing happen.

Maybe I’ve become desensitized.  Dick jokes and classroom management no longer seem noteworthy as they happen all the time.  Perhaps I need two  psychotic cats.

I don’t know.  I suppose something will click, until it does, all I have are these writings: blocks of text with a depth to their determination.