Ray Coach In Cave
By ice rivers
I was in the cave minding everybody else's business. The lion lamb of March had just purred in under soft rain and concrete clouds when the spirit of Ray Bradbury entered the room. I never speak to ghosts so the only words in the room belonged to him. The spectacled spirit understood that I was worn out and hiding. I had lost my zest and my gusto and was satisfied with my click clicking routine and false serenity. He wondered how I could wonder where my inspirations had fled. Ray made it clear that I hadn't been feeding them and was already 60,000 words short for this year alone. They know you're a lonely soul but they too get tired of waiting particularly when they're hungry. When the inspirations are ignored, they find another place to hide and for too long, they've been hding in your camera where they don't feel as abandoned or as challenged or as joyful. So yeah, don't you think you can even contribute one paragraph that might make a difference in the puzzle of your life or the maze of anothers. If you can write even one such paragraph then get your ass out of this inertial purgatory and write that fucking paragraph. Then, he was gone and I could and I did.