The other day when I took my husband to work, I noticed a book. (BTW, he works at a book store.) It was a book on drawing. Of course, such books always draw my attention, and this one did no less. But, this time, as I looked through it, I remembered the joys of seeing a pictures develop on a page and of looking at what I had created and a streak of creativity sprung up from deep inside.
I've had these streaks spring up before, but this time a friend also had a poetry reading at her place, which fostered this streak a bit more. As I listened to the others read their favorite poems and poems they had written, the desire to write grew inside of me. I took that desire and ran with it. I wrote and wrote, about things I had felt at some time or about something I thought. I wrote about little things like not wanting to get out of bed, and about big things, like missing Mom. None of it is very long, but its a start. Perhaps, eventually, my creative writing will grow and fully mature into something beautiful. But even if remains a stunted expression of my inward creativity, that's okay, because even stunted expressions are better than nothing!
And I think I'll keep my eye on that book. Drawing would be fun, too!