An Elusive Friend

On Motivation

Inspiration, by William-Adolphe Bouguereau. French, 1898.

Motivation is an impish little thing that often lurks on my doorstep. It is the stray that lives near the dumpsters with half a tail and sulky green eyes. I’ll leave out a bowl of water and a handful of dry food, but it won’t slink near until I back away and watch from my window. 

Motivation also blows by with the wind as days get shorter and the sky darkens by seven. It wears plastic fangs and a black cape with a high collar. But no matter how many times I invite it in, it will stand there in silence. Its knuckles strained and white around an empty pillowcase.

Motivation sometimes pecks at the space between the wood post and the gutter drain pipe. I watch it collect curly hairs of moss, browning crisp leaves, and twigs the size of my middle finger. It makes its nest there for the winter.

Only when I jerk awake in a cold sweat and see the moon peek through my blinds do I find its grip on my palm. Or when I’m stuck bumper to bumper during the afternoon rush, do I find it swings its devilish legs on my shoulder, and whispering in my ear to pick up a pen.