Books are my inspiration. Not particularly one genre, just books, in all their stubborn, generous abundance.
I have read across genres, I have crossed timelines, followed voices that were nothing like mine and some that felt eerily familiar. Every book carries something golden within it, a sentence, an idea, a rhythm, and most times what it does to me is show me a way of seeing the world that lingers long after the last page is turned.
Whenever my writing feels stuck, when the words refuse to come and writer’s block starts circling, I reach for a book. Any book. I don’t worry about whether it’s good or bad. I just open it and let it speak.
Funny how even bad books inspire me. Maybe especially bad ones. They make me roll my eyes, yes, but they also make me curious. I begin to imagine the writer behind the pages, the moment that sparked the idea, the emotions or experiences that convinced them this story needed to exist. I think of the drafts, the doubts and of course the courage it took to finish it anyway. And in that process of analysis something unlocks in me.
Books remind me that inspiration is everywhere, you can find it between flawed sentences, awkward metaphors, and even stories that don’t quite land. They remind me that writing doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful. It just has to be honest enough to exist.
So when I feel empty, I read, and in reading, I remember why I write. That’s my inspiration.
This is my response to the freewriters daily prompt