I really haven’t been procrastinating with the rewrites and queries on my book. The fact is, life rudely interfered with my writerly plans and when I finally sat back down at my keyboard, no words would come. No ideas, no juice. Nothing.Time was spent in a darkened room trying to force words to stop spinning, to just make sense: Jerty floy yobble, they replied. The more I tried to focus, the thicker the mental fog became.I watched The Tudors, Planet Earth, The Dog Whisperer.
Pifrog licky bocan.I painted, photographed, listened to Stravinsky and frittered frantically.Ert yaf oi twivvom.I despaired.
Then, last week something clicked.
The fog suddenly cleared and I could focus. Thoughts gelled.When I sat down at the keyboard, writing happened. Words behaved themselves.
What’s distressing is I can't think what opened the gates.
If I knew, I could do it next time life interrupts my writing.
Was a good night’s sleep? No, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in months.
Was it the insomnia? Perhaps, though I doubt it.
Was it not thinking about the damned book for a while? Giving it a rest? Very likely.Was it the painting, the photography or the frittering? Who knows? Or, was it the dreaded muse? The fabled, mythological writer’s muse? The one you can’t control or depend on?NO, no. Definitely not.
I’m an atheist, I don’t believe in muses.
Muses shmuses.Actually, there isn't a writer's muse per se, only poetry muses, so no wonder we get stuck without even a dedicated muse to inspire us!
As I can't figure it out, I'll just have to go through all the above again next time there's a major disruption. Sigh.
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