Maggie Lowe

Inspiration strikes. Usually with an open hand.

She fights dirty sometimes. She comes to you in the middle of the night, the work day, lunch, grief, anger, love, coffee. She’ll bitch slap you across the face (might be ’cause she’s a bitch) and then look you dead in your eye holes while lightly cupping the hand print on your face with the same hand. Then she’ll whisper the idea to you that you think might be the one. The one for what? You don’t know. You just know this might be it.

Inspiration strikes. Like a match. Hits like a high.

I just need another gram…another ounce…another kilo. The good stuff, though! Don’t you cut it with some man-made prompt or rhythm or melody. And keep your computer generated ones away from me! I want it straight from the source into my blood stream, coursing like the poison that will save me. Pure, white, hot, inspiration.

Inspiration strikes. Like a girl. Incessantly.

Have you ever noticed that? Men punch each other. They throw a hook, dodge, throw a jab, somebody is down and we’re done. Women? LOL. When I got you down it’s just starting! They’re out here slapping each other without ever missing a beat, hair pull, nail claw, I’ll bite you if I have to. And when you’re down? The fight might be done but the beating just got going.

Inspiration STRIKES. Until it doesn’t.

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I haven’t been struck recently. Not in the ways I’m used to getting struck. And it’s left me feeling stuck instead. Because without music…what good am I. If that sounds harsh and stark…good. That’s how it feels. I won’t apologize for talking about how it makes me feel, how I have been feeling lately.
There are a lot of things contributing to my lack of inspiration. There are few things soothing it. What I can tell you is that I am finding inspiration in other places for other pursuits. What I am finding is the strength to give myself permission…to sit my guitar down. She is enjoying the rest, smiling at me from the guitar rack while she gathers dust. I think she likes it. I think she might’ve emptied her cup for me. I think she needs a refill.

I’m not sure what this means yet. I may slow down on my posting. I may stop pursuing new shows while keeping the ones that I have. I have promised myself I will stop trying to write new music. I’ve put the pen down. I think I pushed myself the last couple years. I think I pushed beyond and over and past myself. I’ve got to go back and pick me up. But I won’t dust myself off. I’ll just smile back at that guitar while we both gather dust.

Be on the lookout for new kinds of word art from me. Cause that is a river I cannot stop. I will never be able to turn the words off. They’re just going to sound different.

Inspiration strikes.
It will have to strike someone else.
I will not be stricken.