Inspiration verses Will

Which is it? What does it take to write? A lightning bolt stolen from Zues by a precocious muse? Or a level of determination that would trip up even Ghandi? To write... to breathe life into a page... into words? What does it take?

My answer? BOTH. I could have a million ideas zipping through my over-taxed cranium and yet, if I'm not on the ball and excited to sit down and push them from potential to kinetic creativity, I won't have anything word reading when I stand up. Conversely, I can sit all day and stare at blank paper (or the dull blankness of a computer screen), but with out that muse nipping away from her friends to whisper deliciously in my ear, I'll spend most of my time doing nothing more than staring at a wall or cursing said muse for standing me the frak up.

This synergy is crucial for proper writing to take place. And yet it is elusive.

I'm up late... past my bedtime. An odd phrase since it's me who determines that hours which I slumber. I choose them. And though I'm tired, I feel this need to stay alert and at the ready. As if writing were akin to sitting inside the fort waiting for the enemy to come. Waiting with your weapon in hand. Poised. Still. Focused.

Should I be frightened that I've equated my pen with a weapon and waiting for the muse to descend to something out of "Platoon"? Perhaps. I know that I am running out of time. Deadlines approach swiftly from the north and south and as my horizon collapses upon me, I am struck with the simple realization and inspiration and will have to co-exist if I'm ever going to write something worth reading.

But tonight, the will is not there. Tiredness takes hold quickly.

There is much on my mind. It will be dealt with in the morning, I'm sure.