i tried to write this morning and came to the conclusion that writing with children, and a cat, and a husband, and life is like trying to drive a car with the sun shining brightly in your eyes, oncoming traffic is completely lost to the glare of the golden light, and you say a little prayer, hold on tightly to the wheel as you attempt to steer yourself straight and stay within the lines. when all hope has been lost, in that moment when you throw your hands up into the air and say, “alright! i give up!” when you begin to sway and swerve and sidle along the edge, when you deviate from the lines that is when the true magic happens.
the lines, after all, are only guidelines, the merest hints of suggestion as to the path that should be taken. when you cross those lines and the edges of your road are nothing but a blur of boundary that is when inspiration takes hold of you, and you are no longer the driver, you are the passenger, seeing the sights as they fly past the window of your mind.
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