Not So Drafty in Here This Morning

Before I begin, a confession—

Despite my determination of last Monday's blog not to turn up the thermostat before November 1st . . . I turned up the thermostat.

It was cold. I am weak.

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This morning, though, a draft of a different sort—a first draft.

I'm looking for inspiration. Oh, sure, I have a project I'm working on. I have several projects I'm working on. I have a new book I'm putting together. I have deadlines. I have commitments.

You'd think that somewhere in all of that there would be an idea or two, some new blood burbling, but you'd be wrong. The buckets are roped, ready to be dropped down into the hole. But the well is dry.

A friend of mine tells me that you can sell writers anything. She says writers are always looking for the magic, that they will forever believe that someone else is holding it. I co-host a poetry series, and one of the things we always ask our readers is to provide the audience with a note or two about their writing routines. What's their process, their magic?

I know I'm interested in process. One of the things I love most in my writerly world is to sit around with my others and jabber on about the things we do to make it happen--the pen-picking, the scribbling, the word-listing, the dog-petting, the tea-making, the candle-lighting, the on-and-on-and-on-and on-ing. But the sad news of me is that I don't have a process. Whatever fooling and futzing I might engage in are undeniably from the playbook of Procrastination 101. If there's a lit candle in the room, it's only there for me to entertain myself by running my finger through the flame.

So what to do when there's nothing to do? Oh, wait a minute! I know!!

I'd tell you, but I'm afraid I'd spoil the magic.