I’m folding laundry or watching the Housewives or both when Inspiration pops in. I respond out loud to her spark and we chat for a moment. She cracks me up!

Then I say, ‘I’m too busy,’ or ‘I’m too tired.’ I don’t say ‘I’m too scared,’ but she knows it.

I’m sad when she leaves, and mad at myself for making her go.

What’s that? What do I want Inspiration to know right now?—“I love you. I see you and I love you.”

But she already knows that. You can’t tell Inspiration anything. She tells you.

Now that I think about it, Inspiration is kind of a bossy b*tch, who like, refuses to leave me alone.

Or maybe, she just wants what’s best for me. The highest version of myself.—I’m sure you’ve noticed that I haven’t posted in a few months. I’ve been caught up, not for the first time, in the existential knot, ‘What’s the point?’—The point, Cha Cha, is that you’re scared.

Inspiration and I are talking again. Nothing serious, just spit ballin’. She may be bossy, but she’s also got some interesting ideas.

She trusts me. I think I should trust her. I want to trust her.

I feel inspired by Inspiration and I’m writing about it. But that isn’t enough for her. She’s pushing me further out of my comfort zone. “This is something,” she says, urging me to take this beat into production. “You love the editorial process!” she winks, like she knows me so well.