I rarely mind my own business.  I'm a writer - if I simply minded my own business I'd be stale in three sentences.  But occasionally I actually do "mind my own business" - others might call it being a bit over self-involved - to the point of being a bit on the touchy side.  Not grouchy, not snarky, just a bit touchy.  Okay, fine, I'll cop to it.  BFD.   Yesterday morning, however, I really and truly was minding my own business.  I was in the editorial offices looking for a much-needed thing (probably a coffee refill to be honest) when someone asked THE QUESTION yet again:  "So, like, where do you get your inspiration?" 

So now what?  Do I make a philosophical, blather-filled comment about inspiration?  Should I be flip, tell him to f-off, or ignore it?  What could I do?  Well, on that sunny, warm, San Diego coast morning I said the first thing that came to mind.  "I get my inspiration from the Bank of America."

"Pardon me?"

"Yep, Bank of America."

"How can a bank give inspiration?  Do you sit in the lobby and people-watch?"

"Nope."

"Then I don't get it."

"If I don't give money to the Bank of America they will take my home.  I'm partial to that house so I write."

"Oh."

There is much, much more to the probably unlimited things that inspire me, of course.  There is also the simple need to write - but people who aren't writers rarely understand that so why say it?  And then we're back to minding my own business.  I write to pay the bank, I write to give money to Shell Oil, I write to travel, and finally, I write to live.  Part of the essential me is right here, right now with you as you read this.  I'm alive on the water, I'm alive on the dance floor, I'm alive in bed, I'm alive in front of a class, but I'm really alive at this keyboard, in my office at home - the Birthing Room.  The room where I give birth to ideas - good and bad - and send them on their way.