I think this place is stale with distractions. Internet, cable, and me. I think about places I could go and not plug into the world but just my head. But I wonder if place or distractions are the problem. The disappointment when I find out it isn’t any of that. It is me.

Is it time? I have no set schedule. I don’t write in the morning with sleep still in my eye. I don’t let my hands search my inner subconscious. I have been writing almost everyday but there is not set day. No set time. Most of the time it is just for work. Does that make me less of a writer?

I have no person to go to with my writing. Criticism is the hardest thing to take but the thing needed most. I don’t want a writing group I want a literary companion who will tell me my silly grammar mistakes aren’t stupid but easy to fix. Someone I can return the favor to with conversion. I can do that myself. I have fears. I don’t need to be told everyone has the same fears but do I need to hear it. Maybe I could read my stories out loud tripping and stumbling. Listening to someone read their stories worried I may miss something because it is not visual. I can read my stories to myself with the written word in front of me. Not be forced to read my work out loud to someone who will grin and nod but really daydream away. Worst believe someone believes in my writing but shows no interest in what I write.

It isn’t inspiration. Inspiration does visit me. Sometimes it is at the worst moment. Just as I’m laying down to sleep. Dark. The bed is finally warm where I can stretch out of the radiation of heat ball. Words and phrases and sentences start to talk in my head and there is always that moment I think, “I should write this down,” but I think about turning on the light and being closer to awake than asleep and I abandon inspiration. The worst is when the muse tricks me. She makes me believe what I am hearing from my head is genius then I write it all down in a clique mess of words.

I am missing something when I sit down to write. Me.