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September 2006
Dreams Can Be Contagious
By: Laura Bradford
Creative Writer
In the writing world, one’s muse is their source of inspiration. It’s that thing that gets their creative juices pumping and the words flowing.
Writer’s block means the exact opposite. It’s when those creative juices dry up and you stare at your computer screen or pad of paper and have absolutely nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
I’ve been fairly fortunate—or, rather, well trained by a host of former bosses—to avoid writer’s block. I can generally write when I want to write. Is it always good? No. But writing something is better than writing nothing. You can always tweak and fix later.
If I’m having trouble getting motivated (very different than writer’s block), I give myself a deadline. Why? Because I don’t miss deadlines (until, of course, this article was due). It’s one of my personal rules in life. Right behind the one about chocolate being a necessity, not a luxury.
Anyway, this is all a long-drawn-out way of getting to my point (and I do have one, I promise). For the past six weeks I’ve had no muse. No desire to write. No ideas for a new series regardless of my agent’s gentle prodding.
Was I being lazy? Had I finally slipped into the dreaded depths of writer’s block?
Unfortunately, no. Life kind of got in the way. And while I was down for the count, this life stuff managed to snatch away the one thing I’ve always had—my love of writing. A scary thing for someone who has never wanted to do anything else. Ever.
So I came out here to New Town to wander around and try to come up with something to write for this column. I pulled into a parking spot by the amphitheatre and crossed the road to the Prancing Pony, my mind on everything but why I was there. I ordered a small pizza and sat down on the porch to wait…just me, myself, and a really nice oscillating fan. I uncapped my Fiji water (love that stuff) and just kind of stared outside, not really thinking of anything.
And while I sat there, staring, I noticed a man walk by with his little girl on one side and a small dog on the other. I watched them walk across the road and over to the front door of Town Hall.
Then I saw Town Hall, and the fountains in the distance. I noticed a kid meander along on a bike…a threesome of little girls laughing as they headed across the lawn of the amphitheatre.
And before I knew it, I wasn’t staring into space any longer. I’d finally reengaged with something. Sitting there, alone on that porch, I saw a piece of Greg Whittaker’s dream—how he’s set the ground work for something really special here at New Town. I saw how the residents who live here are taking his ground work and adding their own pixie dust to the mix.
My muse was stirring. For the first time in six weeks.
Yeah, the life stuff is still there. But I don’t have to let it mess with my dream.
So if you’re driving down Galt House Drive in the next few weeks and you see me sitting on one of those benches alongside the water with a computer on my lap…my muse and I are writing.
Thanks, New Town!
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