It’s impossible not to love April. It’s the prettiest month, the crocus month, the herald of the lover’s month (wait, how could I ever pick the prettiest month?): May. As soon as April hit, so did inspiration. I started the month buzzing with near-delusional creative energy and I have the crazed texts to prove it. Some of my friends and I are writing and emailing each other a poem-a-day in honor of National Poetry Month (although in the case of your faithful correspondent, I’m writing flash fiction…ish), and I can’t tell you how rewarding it feels to think up a brand new title night after night (I love titles, I will lick them off the page if I must, DON’T TREAD ON ME). I want to say something like “creation breeds creation” because I think it might be true. I skidded into the last week of March writing 15 desperate script pages a day, completely burned out, feeling like I would never write again. But then April came. Last night, I couldn’t sleep because I kept playing out new scenes in my head. And the scenes were creepy–dead body in the oak tree? nursing a dying baby?–so my inner child-eye refused to close because it was so freaked out. Does anyone else have their best ideas at night? Isn’t that moment when you force yourself to turn on the light and write them down so agonizing? And don’t you feel so self-righteous when you do?
You have to listen to your inner artist just like a pregnant woman listens to what her baby demands from her body. Sometimes you lay fallow and you can’t hate yourself for that. Because this is what happens when you don’t force yourself to churn out page after tepid page. Spring comes, and your whole self blooms.