O great muse sing through me,
But could you please do it any time but 1:30 in the morning? Please?
When I made the choice to turn writing into my full time occupation I through that I would be making my own hours. It seemed perfectly logical after all. I’d sit down and figure out when I could hash out a bit of literary goodness and enjoy my day. Seemed completely legitimate.
Yeah, I was wrong.
Yesterday was a fairly fruitless attempt at getting something down on paper. I went through this back and forth for several hours of typing up a few things, deleting a few things. It was the writing equivalent of “three steps forward, two steps back”. Around dinnertime I blew a raspberry at myself and turned everything off.
“Fine,” I told my creativity, “Be that way.”
I crawled lazily into bed (remember my bed?) somewhere around one in the morning with the intention of falling asleep. Yeah, that was wishful thinking. As soon as I started to drift off my brain started to feed me an idea. At first I just lay there, after all…my bed is really comfortable.
But this idea just wouldn’t stop.
“All right, allright!” I finally got up, switched my laptop back on and promised myself I’d just spend the next fifteen minutes typing up the basis of the idea so I wouldn’t forget the little details that were flitting around my brain.
I could make a living off being wrong.
By the time I came out of my creatively induced fugue state it was seven-thirty and my stomach was begging me for something to eat. I had written just over three thousand words and had the basis for a story.
Thanks brain. Thanks a lot.
blacksbookishbabbles 