Consider for a moment some of the inexplicable mysteries of the universe. What happened before the Big Bang? Does intelligent life exist on other planets? Why do socks disappear in the dryer?

Then there’s the greatest mystery of all: Where does time go?

I ask this last question because nearly two years of retirement has only added to my befuddlement.

Before I retired, I spent most of my waking hours at the newspaper where I worked. Writing and editing stories. Building pages. Persevering against the erosive toll of deadlines. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my job. But I yearned for what I imagined would be the freedom of life after employment. No interviews. No deadlines. Just hour after unfettered hour to do as I pleased.

I was especially eager for the opportunity to change vocations from journalist to novelist. Several rungs up the evolutionary ladder. I managed to complete two novels over the last decade of my newspaper career, herding words early in the mornings, late in the evenings and on those weekends I didn’t have to go to the office. But my heart raced in anticipation of how much more I could accomplish in retirement. Two novels? Hell. Make it five. With ample time to spare for queries and the opportunity to find a literary agent and publisher who share my passion for my characters and their adventures.

What was I thinking?

Almost two years into retirement, I’m still mired in the sagging middle of my third novel. My quest for traditional publishing feels more quixotic than promising at a time when agents overwhelmed with queries seldom respond with even perfunctory rejections. Don’t get me started on the threat artificial intelligence poses to what should be a strictly human endeavor.

What happened?

I’d love to report I’ve made the most of the additional hours retirement affords for writing and publishing fiction, toiling every bit as diligently on my novel and queries as I previously worked on print journalism. Yeah right. That would be a blatant lie.

I’ve got a few of what I deem good excuses. Most important, I fell in love and married a wonderful woman who endures double duty as my stoic wife and developmental editor. We moved into a beautiful condominium in Palm Springs and savor desert life in both Southern California and western Colorado.

I’ve enjoyed travel to other remarkable locations, among them Italy, Mexico, Bonaire … Kentucky. That’s not to mention the growing number of national parks I’ve visited and crossed off that bucket list.

Despite those welcome distractions, I still enjoy more time to write fiction now than I did before I retired. But I discovered something else: I possess considerably less discipline. No longer faced with limited time to write before and after work, I squander the abundance with which I’ve been blessed. Mostly scrolling through social media posts and scurrying down internet rabbit holes. I rationalize I’m conducting research for my writing. As author Dan Brown noted: “Google is not a synonym for research.”

I’m no less mistaken in my belief writing is a difficult undertaking that requires dedicated blocks of time. More than a casual 30 minutes here or an hour there wedged between other pursuits. Writing can be difficult, no doubt. But I’m frequently astonished by how deep a dive follows once you’re willing to dip your toe into the water.

Worst of all, I know better than to procrastinate. Especially when it comes to writing.

Just like physical fitness, writing requires flexing muscles that otherwise atrophy with neglect. Butts in seats and fingers on keyboards, as my wife and editor admonishes. Then brains in gear. Or in the words attributed to no less a prolific author than Stephen King: “Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration, the rest of us just get up and go to work.”

As if I needed the reminder, a scrap of paper that’s taped to my desk and appears directly above my computer screen offers this reminder in bold print: “Today is the most precious asset you own — and is the one thing you should truly fear wasting.” As yet another author, Geoffry Chaucer, put it back in the 14^th century: “Time and tide wait for no man.”

That applies not only to writing, but also life. I can’t understand how fast my 67 years on earth sped past. In a blink, it seems. I expect the pace to only accelerate. Until one day it doesn’t.

The 17^th century English poet Robert Herrick famously warned virgins — and, I presume, everyone else — to make much of time: “Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that blooms today tomorrow will be dying.”

That’s the moral of the story, isn’t it? And what should be more than sufficient inspiration. To craft novels and stories and poems and blogs. To compose heartfelt love letters and thank-you notes. To dispatch emails and texts.

It’s a privilege to gather rosebuds whether they’re proverbial or literal. To make much of time. Even in retirement. Especially in retirement.

That’s because the greatest mystery remains unexplained. None of us knows where time goes. Or, for that matter, how much we have left.

Nearly 50 years after the fact, I still recall an exercise in my first-year composition class at Colorado State University. The teaching assistant retold the fairytale about Goldilocks and the three bears in the style of famous authors, then invited students to guess who might have written what.

It wasn’t difficult to discern how Ernest Hemingway likely would have described in his sparse way how Goldilocks sampled the porridge: “She tried the first bowl. It was hot. She tried the second bowl. It was cold. She tried the third bowl. It was good. She ate it all.”

The same for Raymond Chandler and his hardboiled poetry: “I took a bite from the first bowl and nearly burned my tongue off. Too hot, like a heater in a small room. The second bowl was too cold. Then I saw the third bowl. It was warm. Just right. I wolfed it down, leaving the bowl as empty as a broken promise.”

The point of the exercise was obvious, even to a freshman who’d yet to contemplate a career as a writer. It was all about the importance of literary voice. Word choice, sentence structure, pacing, tone and perspective form a constellation of attributes that makes writing distinct and memorable. In the case of Hemingway, Chandler and many others, their voices are so distinct they’re recognizable within a single sentence.

Don’t get me wrong. Subject and plot matter. Character development matters even more, I’d argue. Good fiction tells compelling stories about characters you care about. The best fiction does the same thing while exploring human truths. But admit it. If your favorite author — the one whose literary voice resonates so deeply it feels like an earnest conversation with a cherished friend — published her grocery list, you’d run out and buy it. That’s the power of voice.

Even before I attended that composition class at CSU, I was gobsmacked by the literary voice of another author and the voice he gave in turn to one of literature’s most well-known characters. I’m writing about J.D. Salinger and Holden Caulfield. Is there a more unique first-person narration than what’s found in “Catcher in the Rye?” It’s at once intimate, sarcastic, funny … and grand. Although Holden would object to that last adjective: “There’s a word I really hate. It’s a phony. I could puke every time I hear it.”

A few weeks ago, I discovered yet another remarkable literary voice in reading “The Outsiders” by S.E. Hinton. It’s another coming-of-age story, told this time by Ponyboy Curtis. He’s a teen-age “greaser” some might mistakenly dismiss as a juvenile delinquent, but one who relishes sunsets, recites Robert Frost poems and brings a perspective to life well beyond his years. His first-person narration balances grit and tenderness. By the way, the novel opens and closes with a great line: “When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home.”

Here’s the paradox of literary voices, though: as much as you admire them, you don’t dare emulate them. It would come across as what Holden Caulfield — and nearly all readers — would recognize as a phony. The quality of voice depends on an authenticity born of an author’s knowledge, experiences and beliefs. All qualities as unique as a snowflake.

I’d like to believe I’ve developed something of a literary voice over decades writing newspaper stories and, more recently, short stories and novels. It’s been an evolutionary process involving writing, listening and revisions followed by more writing, listening and revisions. I’ve spent years reading my work out loud to detect not only the clinks and clanks of poor craftsmanship, but also the discordance of deceit.

I don’t believe for a moment my voice is nearly as distinctive as Hemingway’s or Chandler’s or Salinger’s. Or Hinton’s, for that matter, although she was only 18 when “The Outsiders” was published. Damn, girl.

It’s my voice, nonetheless. Honest and real. For better or worse. I only hope readers want to hear more of it.

Back when I worked at a newspaper in Oregon, I used to joke with a newsroom colleague about sharing the muse as weekly deadlines loomed. “Aren’t you done yet?” I pleaded with the same urgency as someone hopping on one foot outside a locked bathroom door. “Hurry up. I really gotta go … finish my story.”

We didn’t need the divine intervention of a Greek goddess. That’s because there’s nothing so effective as a ticking clock to inspire reporters to file copy. The mere prospect of missing deadlines constitutes an anathema.

But now that I’m a recovering journalist — retired, that is — I no longer face drop-dead deadlines. I like to share pages with the eclectic and supportive writing group with which I meet on Monday evenings. Otherwise, there’s seldom a requirement to perform on demand. I’m blessed to enjoy a more leisurely and, presumably, thoughtful approach to writing fiction. And cursed with the realization I’m sometimes uninspired to do so. At this very moment I should be slogging through the middle third of my latest novel. Instead, I’m working on a blog about inspiration. Or rather, the lack thereof.

Writing can be a creative, engaging and glorious undertaking. There’s nothing more rewarding than crafting a well-written sentence that reveals human truth. Writing can also be an exasperating, debilitating and damned difficult enterprise.

My perspectives are hardly unique. Paul Gallico, another journalist who evolved into a novelist, described both the challenges of writing and desired result of the process. “It is only when you open your veins and bleed onto the page a little that you establish contact with your reader.” Problem is, I abhor bloodshed. Especially my own.

Eavesdrop on any conversation among writers or peruse their social media and prepare for a fusillade of laments. My favorite? The confessions writers would endure almost anything to avoid confronting a blank computer screen or empty sheet of paper. Reschedule my root canal for this afternoon? Sure. But why not right away? I can be there in 10 minutes. It’s not that daunting to clean the entire house from top to bottom. Not compared to starting a new work in progress.

Here’s the irony. I’ve discovered the hard way I can’t wait for inspiration to strike. If I do, it won’t. No lightbulbs switch on in my head. Trust me. I’ve seen it in there. It’s a dark, desert highway along which no novel thought grows.

It’s been my experience if inspiration ever does occur, it’s far more likely to drop by unannounced. To come like fog on little cat feet. Think “Back to the Future” and how Dr. Emmett Brown slipped while hanging a clock in his bathroom. He hit his head on the sink and came up with the idea for the flux capacitor, which makes time travel possible.

What’s a writer to do? Short of staging household accidents.

My brilliant and beautiful fiancée — who doubles as my brilliant and beautiful writing coach — offers this no-nonsense antidote: butts in seats. She leads presentations on the subject, in fact. Get your butt in a seat and get to work. Write something. Anything. Her point: get started, build on the momentum and relish the success that follows. The prolific inventor Thomas Edison similarly calculated the composition of genius at 1 percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration.

Here’s what’s equally important. Don’t succumb to the distraction your writing isn’t yet perfect. That the three words that best describe the effort are stink, stank, stunk. No less successful an author than Anne Lamont admitted in her book “Bird by Bird” the only way she ever accomplished anything was to write really, really shitty first drafts. Almost all good writing, she insisted, begins with terrible first efforts. But in starting somewhere, persistent writers invariably reach their desired destinations.

Who knows? Perhaps a muse will intervene after all. Although that was never my fortune working at the newspaper in Oregon or one single, solitary moment since. Maybe muses are fickle that way.

If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to plop back into my seat, grit my teeth and return to work on my novel. Sure, that work might reek of mediocrity. I hope nonetheless a word or two could merit salvage.