I’ve been told that inspiration for writing is everywhere. 

Just open your eyes.

The person or object in front of you, 
even when it’s a computer screen 
or 
The view of the backyard through your office window. 

Look up at the sky,
like when you were a kid
and
you stared out your bedroom window
and
conjured images

from the cumulus clouds 
above the Patterson Projects 
in the South Bronx. 

It doesn’t matter where it comes from 

As long as you write something. 

Oh, they’re very insistent. 

The inspiration is there and everywhere. 

I must open my eyes, ears, and mind to the possibilities.

For a long time, I couldn’t write a thing. 

Well, that's not accurate. 

I could write a love letter,
a script for a radio show,
a television news report,
a technical or policy paper,
or
maybe sneak in a poem
or two.

Those were either the duties of a job
or 
a frivolous moment to fill 
while I waited for something more serious to come along.

Marking time. 

That’s how I sometimes thought of creative writing. 

You know, the writing where you open your heart and soul and scream words onto a page until they click into moving pictures. 

Or, to put it another way,
the words walk into living worlds
and
settle in to rest for as long as they want.

A million other writers 
and 
I have said it before, 
writing, 

authentic writing 

That spills out honestly 
when you find the courage 
to free yourself, 
And your soul will follow

is difficult. 

Almost impossible 
if you’re not honest with yourself. 

Writing on demand can seem easy 
when you’re just pecking away at the keyboard 
in the hopes that something comes out,

And all that seems to appear on the screen 
in front of you is gibberish 
your eyes can’t translate.

But you exercised your fingers 
and 
proved that you could type.

Yeah, that’s one way to look at it.

When I was a television reporter, 
I had to crank out 
two to three scripts in the span 
of a couple of hours

(without the aid of a computer or Grammarly), 

You had notes, 

And maybe you had a chance to watch the news film 
(probably not) 
or the video 
(doubtful). 

You had to tap your memory banks,
write a story based on fact,
and make sure it made sense,

and 
ensure that it weaves with the visual element 
into a one-and-a-half-minute report

That was succinct and clear enough 

that someone at home 
would take the time to watch it.

Not sure I would call it “creative writing,” 

But you did hope it moved 
someone’s feelings or mind an inch. 

This is before the internet, 

When people would sit in front of a television 
at an appointed hour 

Or at least had it playing in the background
over dinner
and
watched
and
listened to

crime stories 
or 
scandals 
or 
some stimulating 

“If it bleeds, it leads” news report 
that had spun out 
of your electric typewriter 
only an hour earlier. 

My goal was to tell the truth 
in the best way I knew how, 

and my inspiration 
was the reality I had witnessed,

or at least gotten other witnesses to tell their stories.

The Creative Writing I did in college was different 
and 
more challenging. 

Some people 
try any number of processes,
exercises, 
and 
techniques 
to get their creative juices flowing.

I start my writing simply enough. 

A title. 
A thought. 
An incident from my past. 
A word. 

A single word. 

What matters is that I start typing. 

Type. 
Type. 
Type. 

Take a breath
and 
then start typing again 

and 
be confident enough 
to ensure that a stream of sentences flows across the screen 
and 
that it makes some sense.

Okay, maybe not at first. 

It’s my first write. 

Perhaps it will be gibberish at first. 

It’s a beginning.

Then, I go over it, the writing. 

Sometimes, 
I’ll study it on the screen, 
making immediate changes as I go.

Or 
maybe after the fourth 
or 
fifth versions

(I’ve done upwards of twenty versions during the course of writing a piece), 

I’ll print it out 
and 
read it aloud, 
listening to the cadence of the words, 

the connection of those words, 
the specific words themselves, 

hoping that I’m not repeating 
the exact words, 

nouns, 
prepositions, 
adverbs, 
complex sentences 

that run into each other 
because I sometimes forget
there are such things as 

periods, 
commas, 
or semicolons. 

Grammar is not my strong suit sometimes. 

Always thinking about a better way to say something

(WordHippo is my thesaurus friend). 

To visualize it first 
and 
then splash it across the page 

so that whoever reads it 

stops for a moment to absorb it, 
to bring it into themselves 
and 
allow it to fill their head 
and 
soul with the music of the words 
and the beauty of the picture

that is flashing before their imaginations. 

That’s when you know. 

Yeah, it’s all good.

I don’t want to stop there. 

I want to be continuously inspired 
to make the words sing louder, 
and 
to make the picture brighter, 

The colors are forcing you to look at them 

while at the same time 

they burn into your very essence, 
and 
your heart dances gleefully 
and even more heartily 
than the first time you read 
or 
heard my words.

There’s so much more to learn. 

To exercise my fingers across this page, 
to tap that thing inside all of us 

so those unique words 
just come forward 

and 
wrap me 
and 
you in ecstasy.

Yeah, that would be good.