I drove home a little distracted by the conversation I was having with myself. I do that a lot. Have conversations with myself. I finally decided to do something productive with it, and started to dictate stuff to myself. Who knows? Maybe the only thing keeping me from writing the great American novel is finding the right undergrad needing money and willing to transcribe my madness.
But I digress.
I was talking about my drive home in a distracted state. Yes. Distraction. It plagues me when my To-Do list sprouts To-Do lists. And that’s when the little artist voice inside me decides to come out and play. When I don’t have the time or the attention span to dedicate to it. Because the grown up voice with the job and the bills and the familial responsibilities says it’s time to be a grown-up.
The real me wants to play with words, and I’m not talking about that neat little scrabble knock-off that consumes my phone battery. I want to write, and it seems that everywhere I look there is something I want to capture. Especially on my ride home, when I’m supposed to have both hands on the wheel.
What do you do when you have the need to create?