You know what drives me batty? My drive to write. Seriously—the urge is either relatively non-existent, or it’s so overwhelming that I feel like I might die if I do anything else.
The last couple of days, it’s been the latter. I’ve been writing like a woman possessed. But now . . . now the urge has quieted. The flow of words went from a waterfall to a trickle. And while life is a little easier now that I can remember how to do things that aren’t writing, I find I miss it. I miss being able to sit down and pour out thousands of words a week. I miss the ease of finding the right words, the right plot points for a story.
In short, I guess I’m saying that I really, really wish my muse’s visits weren’t so intermittent. It’d be really, really nice if she came and stayed a while.
I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.