always promising more and then vanishing with the goods.  I’m knee-deep in a scheduling conflict, which is basically my way of saying I’ve overcommitted and now I’m negotiating peace treaties with my own sanity.

Not stressing, though.  No, no — I’m enlightened now.  Floating in the sacred Beat of what I can “control.” Which, as it turns out, is jack shit. 

Life keeps teaching me that control is a rumor spread by people who still label their spice racks.

So I step back from work, breathe like some kind of corporate monk, and take inventory: emotions, intentions, caffeine levels.  Who’s this character I’m playing today?  A little stressed, a little grateful, and just deranged enough to keep things interesting.

And when my writing bores me — which is often — I grab the gasoline of new ideas and light matches in my own brain.  Because if I can’t find inspiration, I can at least start a small, creative fire.