The Curious Eye of the Writer

Most of my texts don’t begin with big ideas.
They begin with small interruptions.

A butterfly crossing my field of vision.
My dog digging the same hole again, convinced this time she’ll find something.
A sentence my husband says in passing, not knowing it will stay with me all day.

Small things are how the world taps me on the shoulder.

I don’t hunt ideas.
I don’t chase them or force them into shape.
I notice them.

I am an observer first – always.
Interpretation comes later.

Ideas don’t arrive fully formed. They accumulate.
They pile up quietly, one observation at a time, until one day they can’t stay silent anymore.
That’s when they turn into text.

Before something becomes a sentence, it becomes a sensation.
A subtle excitement.
A light shiver.
A good kind of anxiety – the kind that says there’s something here.

My body reacts before my language does.
I feel energy rising, curiosity vibrating, a pull toward the screen.
Joy, mixed with urgency.
Not panic – invitation.

When I rush, my writing becomes shallow.
It loses depth, patience, texture.

Living is my fuel.
Not productivity. Not output.

I don’t collect experiences to write about them.
I write because I experience them.

Walking. Cooking. Listening. Reading. Working.
Paying attention.

Routine doesn’t cancel creativity.
A lack of attention does.

A curious writer can find a text in a supermarket aisle.
In the rhythm of laundry.
In a passing thought while waiting for the kettle to boil.

Inspiration doesn’t require extravagance.
It requires presence.

I don’t write everything down.
I store ideas in memory, not in apps.

Some ideas get lost – and I’ve learned to accept that.
Others insist on staying. They return. They repeat themselves.
They wait.

The ones that survive are usually the ones worth writing.

I write for myself first.
To understand what I saw.
To name what I felt.
To make sense of what already touched me.

Lately, I’ve been noticing myself.
Listening more closely to my own reactions, my own language, my own questions.
Writing about writing.
About seeing.
About choosing words carefully – not to impress, but to clarify.

Inspiration doesn’t fall from the sky.
It sits next to you.

You just have to notice who sat down –
and stay long enough to listen.