I remember the first time I ever felt that inexplicable need to write. I was so young, yet I knew that I had to commit these thoughts to paper, give them some permanence. I would admire their structure, their sound, their ability to give my creation life.
I think it is when I am home that I truly feel inspired.
A bicoastal life requires constant attention, inspiration becomes mechanical. As I try to maintain a certain level of productivity in life, work and my education, I lose all sense of the comforts of a home and begin to feel somewhat lost.
Most times, I come to loathe the phrases that once seemed true. They lose their charm and become tainted with the self-doubt that plagues most of my words. The passage of time ruins my perceived perfection, exposing it to be flawed, imperfect.
But sometimes, I succeed.
Sometimes the words just flow; I let the sound of them guide me. It is organic, the music in the language creates the meaning. It is these bits of creation that feel the most natural, and the most genuine, the most true. Sometimes I must simply allow the words to show me what I mean to say, and I feel them guide me to a place that, before, I could never have imagined or thought up. Some expressions reveal truth that I didn’t even realize, until I deconstruct the words that seemed to lead me to this place of beauty and truth.
It is in these moments that I feel truly inspired.
The Making of a Writer 