The more I write, the more I write. Unpack­ing that: the more that I work, more I find I have things to say, and the more I write them down. I have gone through long peri­ods of wait­ing for a cre­ative spark to hit, only to find that putting fin­gers to the key­board to write just about any­thing causes the levee to break wide open. I find tor­rents of words where there was noth­ing. Hence: the more I write, the more I write. I used to believe that The Muse had to deliver me THE IDEA. THE IDEA would spring fully-formed like an alien par­a­site from John Hurt’s stom­ach, ready to dance for me. I learned that this was a fan­tasy. I took myself and my pref­er­ences out of the equa­tion. No ago­niz­ing over what pro­gram to use, what advice to take, where to begin, what style to use, what tone to strike. I sit. I write. Noth­ing else. If I sit down and let the words flow, no mat­ter what they are, it’s like water over a mill wheel. Gears turn. There is grist to grind, words to write. Ideas, both good and bad, present them­selves. Often times, I can­not tell what is good and what is bad until work­ing through the idea. The sil­li­est things explode into some­thing won­der­ful; what seems amaz­ing fiz­zles out in a puff of smoke. The more words I write, the more words come to me. I’ve come to accept the process, not the Muse, cre­ates the ideas. Work itself fuels my inspiration.