Fickle

Every writer has a fickle muse. Or so I hear. The tides of creative energy ebb and flow in the same unpredictable rhythms as every other passion and focus in our lives.

Unfortunately, my muse is a devious sabotage. Or an impish little kid. She consistently times it so that the ebbs coincide with my downtime and the flows try to sweep me away when I really need to be focused on other things.

As I manage my daily responsibilities, primarily nurturing and preventing the self-destruction of two small children, a shadowy place in my brain churns out random ideas, clever (perhaps) insights on works in progress, and questions for further research. I fill up pages and pages each day with snippets that I can't wait to connect or push forward.

Most days, when I finally get the AIS (a#s in seat) time to write, I'm reasonably productive. No fireballs of intuition. None of the dramatic word counts that seemed imminent while I waited for the grilled cheese to reach melty perfection. Just a bit of progress, may 1,000 words give or take, along with a few revelations that the day's ponderings helped create.

I can live with that.

It's more difficult to suffer old muse-y's latest prank. Endless piles of words, new stories emerging, characters coming into their own, all when I should be cleaning, entertaining, and generally enjoying out of town company.

I'd better end the post. You get the idea.... no time, no TIME, and loads of words. Must, MUST clean the loo, everything else can step in line behind the words.