Autumn has officially reared its head, sending summer running for the hills. Time for warm sweaters, hot drinks, and nights curled up by a roaring fire, spinning yarns worthy of goose bumps and endless retellings.

Then why am I staring at an empty white screen? Ideas dance just outside the ring of glowing warmth, casting only shadows that flicker and vanish with each passing breeze.

When my muse does decide to show his face, the words flow like honey, slow and sweet. And on the heels is a new story, new characters begging to be heard or the next chapter before the ink is dry on the  previous one. One moment, I’m fighting for a single syllable, and the next, I’m struggling to keep up with the cascading ideas.

Yet, at this moment, I twiddle my thumbs and wait, impatiently. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before inspiration strikes again.

Until then, I edit and edit. Maybe that will kick things into gear.