There was a ninety-two year old woman in my writer’s group who read us spellbinding poems channeled to her in the middle of the night by her deceased husband. My friend tells her granddaughters an ongoing story which comes to her in serial segments she receives in dreams. In times of deep emotion or a bubble of humor, I’ve been moved to write poems. Something like when I’m swimming in the chilly Atlantic waters off Cape Cod and suddenly I find myself in a warm current. If I tried to write a poem for this blog right now, I have nothing.
My novels start with a seed of a plot that marinates in my brain until it becomes a soft structure on which I can build my words.
Where does inspiration come from? Outside? Inside? Do you sometimes feel your own creativity is inspired? This mystifies me.