I have found that if I do not write for two solid days that my mind starts to itch. I get antsy to downright irritated and feisty. Some days are more busy than others, and I am ashamed to say that writing does take a back burner at times to more pressing things. I have five decent stories in the works right now. In my opinion, none of the five are complete duds. It is disappointing to so easily push aside my promise to myself…my promise to write daily. But it happens, and with it comes the incessant whine of the jaded and ignored muse.
Since igniting the little demon, I’ve found that it is not as easily thwarted as I am. I start to assemble snarky little phrases in my mind that niggle and poke. If I ignore the muse still, it digs a bit deeper, and the snarky comments start to roll off of my tongue. By the third day the thing will find ways to ruin my day until I sit down and write. Even fifteen thoughtful minutes of writing can satisfy the little beast unless it wishes to flesh out a wholly new story idea. In such instances, it is best to brew a pot of coffee and hang on for the ride. In my defense, I thought Muse and I would be dating. I had no idea she was a jealous whore that wanted to bounce straight to the alter. I thought what happened in Vegas stayed in Vegas. She wants a picket fence and a couple of kids. I suppose I am more naive than I had originally assumed.
This is my attempt to appease the beast. And to tell her that I am sorry that I’ve been so busy. I want to let the demon know that she is as necessary to me as breathing, and that I mean no harm. I bring flowers and even dyed my hair a fiery red for her approval. Forgive me, my Queen, and accept my heartfelt yet simple supplications. Don’t be mad, honey, I’ll take tomorrow off and we will go somewhere pretty. I’ll pack a lunch with all of your favorite things. Now, please stop making comments to the lady in the express line who happens to have twenty items. And while you may be angry that the big truck is taking up both lanes, he could squash us both like a bug. And that guy that you called a pretarded fucktwat…yeah, he pays the bills. Go easy, killer. I’m right here.