I've been going through a rare and very lucky phase lately wherein pretty much everything I see inspires me. Of course, this may be because I'm writing about crime, the loss of individuality and the future.
Alternatively, it could be because winter is my creative time. Outside it's dark and unbelievably cold, so there are no enticing distractions there. Inside, all I want to do is cozy up with a book, even if I have to write it before it can entertain me.
I wonder if other people write because they want to read something specific but haven't been able to find it in the vast marketplace. I wonder if there are true creative seasons, or times, or places. I wonder if I blog every time I'm faced with a knotted plot point and am too lazy to put the time into unwinding it.