The Thrill of the Hunt Crystal Bibbins
There are a million ways I could be spending my Saturday morning. I could be trying a new recipe, or finishing the Afghan I started crocheting last week. Heck, I could even be cleaning my room! A million ways to spend my Saturday morning, and literally all of them would be better than sitting at my desk with a blank slate of a mind. Instead, I glare at my computer screen, gripping the mouse tightly in my hand. WHY IS THIS SO DIFFICULT? I cannot, for the LIFE of me, figure out a story to make. Writer’s block is bad enough when you’re just doing it for fun, but it is a complete pain when you have an assignment to finish. There’s something about a crisp autumn night that just seems so peaceful. Normally, I would spend a night like this on my front porch, gazing at the stars with a hot drink in hand. But there was a poetry slam going on at my favorite coffee shop, and I’m even more of a sucker for poetry than I am for a starry sky. That’s it. That’s all I have. Three sentences, and my creative well has run dry. I’ve never understood how creativity works, and perhaps I never will. It just doesn’t make sense to me how inspiration can be found anywhere, but sometimes it seems like looking into a void. Mankind has always been on the hunt for the ever-elusive muse, a beautiful, wispy spirit that brings life to the arts. Sometimes, they’re plentiful and can be found anywhere you look, but sometimes they can get pretty creative with their hiding places. I remember once taking inspiration from my closet because the doors were open in such a way that seemed to be shutting out the world while secretly inviting its company. After a deep breath and a long stretch, I decide to get up and go on a hunt for this mischievous muse. It isn’t under the bed, lurking behind my pile of worn sneakers, nor is it streaming through my window and onto the carpet. I put on some music to try to lure it out before heading to the kitchen. Perhaps it’s hiding in the way the fruit bowl is perched ever so carefully in the center of the table. A few grapes are spilling off the side, so I grab them, savoring the juicy sweetness that bursts over my tongue when I bite down. I need to do something else, this is boring, I think with a sigh. Maybe going outside will help things along. That seems like a good idea; what better place for inspiration than nature? Especially now, with all the leaves being painted bright yellows and rich shades of red. It’s not supposed to be too chilly today, so I grab a light jacket before heading out to my backyard. “Ava! How are you?” I turn my head towards the rather shrill voice and see my older neighbor, Kathy Thompson. Her dog, Bella, trots around her feet. “Hi, Mrs. Thompson.” I go over and give her a warm hug, the scent of cinnamon apples wafting over 56
