The Return of the Prodigal Writer

After an unintended hiatus, I have begun writing again. It’s been cathartic, liberating — relentless. Snippets of dialog, observations and introspections have returned and nested like members of the boomerang generation. It’s invigorating, but their timing is atrocious and invasive. None of these progenies come at their allotted time — after work, at my computer, cup of coffee in my hands. Instead, they break in like news bulletins:

We interrupt this program to bring you the following…

Inspiration has its own rhythm, but it is annoyingly inconvenient. A sudden brainstorm while cruising up the coast is torture. Taking the time to transcribe when you are late for work will whittle away your hourly wage. A moment of brilliance does no good when you are indisposed, chiding yourself for disregarding the fact that chili cheese dogs come with consequences.

“I can compose later,” I tell my trusting self. “I will be able to recall every clever musing.” HAH! The byproduct of a hiatus is aging. I’m premenopausal. My creativity took a vacation, but my hormones kept playing their tune. Forgetfulness is a preferred weapon of the big Pre-M. I can’t remember if I put on deodorant let alone recollect my reflections of the morning. I sit, occasionally malodorous, ready to ponder and

The quick brown fox jumped over…

And yet, the need to express is insatiable. It commands a hero’s welcome complete with feast and golden ring. It anticipates celebration. It desires its inheritance.

It was lost and now is found.


Originally published in @HumanParts @Medium.com

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