There are days when writing doesn’t come easily.  When words are elusive, moving too quickly to catch like a hummingbird in my garden unable to settle on a single flower.  When I sit in front of the computer screen and stare at the blank page, searching for something, anything to write about. Surely there must be something.

And so I sit and wait for inspiration.  I sort through my mental card catalogue of ideas, thoughts and memories, searching for a title that grabs my interest, piques my curiosity, calls out to be noticed.

Nothing.

No thoughts, no stories, no creative sparks.

Not one thing.

I drove to Staples tonight.  It was my third trip there in a week.  This time it was thin markers, a pair of scissors (why, exactly, is it a pair of scissors when you only buy one?) some glue sticks and a three hole punch.  I caught the eye of another mother scouring the aisles for paper punched with four holes.  Is there such a thing as paper with four holes?

I didn’t think so.

It was late and dark and the car was wonderfully quiet and I found myself sitting there in the silence, allowing the nothingness to just be.  And then it came to me.

Start at the beginning.

And so I will.

Here goes.