Sometimes inspiration just doesn't come. Sitting and staring at a blank screen, I wonder if I have made the right choice. What makes me so different from other people? Why is my writing important, or significant? Do I really have anything worthwhile to say? While some people see these questions as just fishing for compliments, they really aren't. There are times when, no matter how good they are, every writer sits and stares at the creation in front of him, or her, and thinks how horrible or worthless it seems to be--when we all believe we have created the literary version of Frankenstein in a work that will haunt us forever.

So, I go back to the marvelous little place all by myself (See January 31, and February 1) and try to maintain my reverie. I sit in the cottage that Lisa created and hope desparately that the wine (which I don't drink) and cheese (which I love) and lack of company will cause a spark of creativity. When it does come, I heave a sigh, put pen to paper and try to create a failing masterpiece. When it doesn't, I contemplate changing my mind about the wine, and instead go in search for tea and prepare myself for the long vigil, adamantly ignoring the nudgings to tread the path to the cafe to sit and watch, feeding my mind.

If anyone needs me, I'll be in the cafe...third table from the back.