Inspired

My hands are smeared in wet flour from my semi-finished dough when the inspiration strikes. I look around for somewhere to write it. I can spot a paper. Now, where is that pen?

My daughter must have taken it to draw…why can’t she draw with her own pens is a mystery to me. She must have pens in all the colours ever created by humanity and yet, it is my pen she seeks every single time an inspiration strikes her.

I frantically search around, lest the muse leave me behind to be with those better equipped to deal with her. Where could my daughter have kept my pen…or her pens, or pencil, or pencil colours…? Where does she hide writing equipment after using it is another mystery I am yet to unravel.

Suddenly, I spot a crayon lying under the bed and reach out for it. My back is complaining as I grab for it! Now it is covered in dough as well as the bed where I had put my hand to support my weight and the floor where I picked it from. Ugh!

Well, at least I have the crayon now. Okay, where is that paper? I try to write but anyone who had ever kneaded dough can stand witness to what I experienced next. The tiny crayon was slipping from between my fingers that were still smeared with dough. But washing off dough and drying them will take time.

I need something longer.

I lunge for my husband’s pen–this one with a special grip. He is better organised than I, and, for some reason, my daughter doesn’t take his pen. There is a silent treaty between the two of them–I buy you toffees and other stuff, and you leave my stuff where it is. So it is right where it always is.

So, I take his pen quickly and dash for that scrap of paper. The pen behaves as all reasonable ballpoint pens do during the times of need–it splutters several times creating illegible indents on the paper without much ink to call it writing. I feel like a viking trying to write on rocks with a chisel. I have to create loops on the piece of paper to make the pen work properly.

Now, my paper is ruined with indents and smears of dough. But I don’t have the time to look for another. I will have to write in the corners or wherever I can find the space.

Okay, so what was that I wanted to write?

Uhh…

umm…

I was saying that…umm…

Ugh…

It will come back to me, I swear it will. It always does. I will just have to prepared this time. I will carry a pen and paper in my pocket…

Only my dresses don’t have pockets…

I will take notes on my phone…

If I can only remember where I kept it when the muse arrives…

Sigh! I pick up a rag and begin cleaning the dough–now dried–from my hands, the bed, the floor, the crayon and the pen, wash my hands again and go back to my dough…

Author’s note: From years of working in a highly creative field (Instructional Design), I have realised that inspiration strikes at the most unusual moments when you don’t have a pen around–cooking in the kitchen, taking a bath, driving a scooter, hailing a taxi, preparing my daughter for school and, especially, when sleeping!