Good morning my lovely darklings.  Today I’m going to share with you what I envision the me who blocks my inspiration looks like.  In and earlier post I showed you a picture of a fairr\y I picture of as my muse, so it’s only fair.  I actually think the picture a quite beautiful, not that I think I am but you gotta admit if you were strolling through the woods and happened upon this chic, you would probably be more than a little freaked out.  I run into her every time I’m trying to write and nothing comes or words only come in forced out chunks in the form of paragraphs.

Behind this lovely broken girl is a place where my mind would be able to wander around in the mist and mazes of the trees to seek out where my story is meant to go or new ideas that I’ll hold onto until I’m ready for the next book.  She stands before me,blocking my way, her cracked, porceline-esque face holding my unfinished story lines or possible ideas that will never get a chance to get started.  Her blue lips a symbol of their deaths if I can’t get past her.  Her red eyes a warning of what I might find should I get beyond her to the trees to what might be bad ideas and failure.  And to me her expression clearly asks if I’m willing to risk those things.  Do I really want to fight through her to get there?  She is the beauty of what-if failure.

And the answer is always yes.  Beyond her is my dream.  If I can fight my way through her, who knows what gems or treasures I might find?  Could my Golden Ticket of publication could be in those woods hidden under the brush or a tangle of thorns that I have to rip my flesh to retrieve?  That is another sacrifice I’d be willing to make.  Fear tries to inhibit inspiration but what are our dreams without fear?   In this case, I am my own worst enemy but I still write on.

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