A Yelp of Inspiration

Writing is difficult when inspiration has fled you like an abused pet. You try time and again to coax its return, waiting by the same peeling IKEA desk at the same time each day, hoping for a mere glimpse of its scared little face. You say to it "Juss' come back home, boy. Everythang's gon' be alright." You resort to buying its love with moleskin notebooks, fancy fountain pens, and slick-lid laptops. But finally, when all else fails, you just have to hunt the little bastard down. Here is how you do it.

Be still as ice. Any noisy disturbance and you will have scared it off. Do not speak, do not think, only breathe, very softly. You are a trapper and like the finest of them, you must have patience enough to out-wait the end of the world. Soon enough you will feel its presence, not quite in the room, but no doubt lurking just outside the walls. You must await its approach as you would a curious sparrow examining the bait hidden under a twig-supported Huggies box. It will nuzzle your neck and sniff your rear. Do not break pose. Allow it to first attain a sense of ease and safety around you. When the moment finally comes to make the grab - you will know instinctively like the imminence of a bowel movement - do not hesitate. Shoot out. Grasp its neck with your strong hand and quickly call the other to meet it. Wring the beast dry of all that is rightfully yours. Wring it like a two dollar hand towel.

When you are certain that it has given up the last ounce of the muses' ink, set it free. It will flee with its tail between its legs and yelp of its bruised ego, but fear not. It cannot long keep away from here. Like the scribbling right hand that pivots upon a writer's rising callus, inspiration is a glutton for punishment.