Eminem and cigarettes.
Many things to be inspired by, even if these walls are are so blank and white.
I look to them as a canvas. The turtles on my right my muse.
The guitar and drum set in front of me motivation.
Books on my left inspiration.
Yet my pad is still blank and my pen stilled filled with ink.
I’d love to think that I do “well” at things. Particularly writing. And motherhood. And life. Right now? I’m convinced I am only half-assed. All because I’m in rewriting hell.