Inspirations

I decided to start carrying a tiny notebook and pen in the zippered pouch I wear to go walking. I wanted it in case I have a sudden inspiration and feel the need to write something down. It’s what writers do, so I’ve heard, and I thought I’d give it a try. I do often have thoughts I want to remember when I’m out walking my dog, so I figured it’d be good to be prepared. 

Cash is fairly well-trained on his remote collar now, so when we came to a trail through woods, I let him free from his leash to chase squirrels. My mind began wandering to the novel I’ve been writing, and I had an idea I wanted to record in my handy-dandy notebook. I dug my pen and notebook out of the pouch (no, it’s not a fanny pack) and wrote down my little bit of inspiration. Lost in my task, I didn’t notice that a runner and her dog were quickly approaching us on the trail. Cash spotted them before I did. I finished my notes and looked up to see them coming toward us. I called Cash. He stopped, looked at me, and with “But there’s a dog” urgency continued toward them. I had Cash’s leash in my right hand, and my phone (which I’d taken out to free the notebook), the pen, the notebook, and a bag of poop were in my left. The collar remote was still zippered in the pouch, which would have taken two hands to pry free. Helpless, I called Cash again. Had I called to him sooner, he would have listened, or had I been holding the remote, I could have beeped him to remind him of his command. But, it was too late. The runner and dog, who was properly leashed, kept coming and Cash closed the gap. Fortunately, it was without incident. They touched noses, Cash skittered excitedly, and they moved along. I apologized and then looked down at the things in my hands. I laughed at how foolish and irresponsible I must have looked. Instead of controlling my dog, I’d just stood there, hands full, (ok) fanny pack hanging open, helplessly calling him to “come.” And I couldn’t have been more pleased with myself.

This was what I’d always imagined (well, it wasn’t quite as romantic as I’d envisioned) a writer’s life to be. Ever since I first read Harriet the Spy, and maybe before, I dreamed of being a writer. I’d carry a notebook and fill it with inspiration; I’d feel a constant need to write things down. Because I’m a writer.

Well, it hasn’t always been that way. Life takes us in many new directions. I had to bring myself to this point. Living through a pandemic changes things. It allowed me to take stock of my time. It made me say to myself, “It’s now or never.” I began working on a novel I first started eleven years ago. I reinstated in the writing course I had put on hold as well. I found a space in my house to devote to my writing, and I allow myself the time each day to go to the rocking chair in my basement to just sit and write. That’s how inspiration begins. And I carry my little notebook with me along the way.