Inspiration comes unexpectedly. You can’t force it, you can’t order it around. That’s the nice thing about it. And that is the frustrating thing about it (if your rent depends on it).
It strikes at odd moments. Like when you are getting out of bed. To fetch a book. And you notice the catalogue lying under the night stand.
Or, when you look to your left and notice the patterns on your bedsheet and quilt and their shadows on the wall.
Or, when you want to turn off the lamp and notice how the tilted lines of its shade contrast with the vertical lines of the window behind it, against the horizontal lines of the air conditioner behind it.
Somewhere in between, you also nod at St. Patrick when you realize that you are holding an Irish Pale Ale, your nails painted green.
And then you get back to being inspired while picking a book out of your bookcase.
Which is when you notice the bamboo plant and the lines and angles on that corner of the ceiling (and the shadows).
Finally, you make it back to the bed with the book and settle down to write this post.
Such is inspiration.