Being a writer is a bit surreal. First of all there’s this bit about having a ‘Muse.’ This is how the Greeks personified the creative urge; that there was an actual being providing inspiration. It really is almost like a force outside yourself. An immature, selfish and demanding force. It’s a bit like having your day organized by a spoiled two-year old.
I sit down thinking I am going to write on the current project. I have my coffee and am settled in comfortably in front of the computer and am ready to write when suddenly the damned Muse says ‘NO. Write this other thing.’
‘But you don’t understand,’ I say, ‘This is the next project.’
‘NO. This other thing is the next project now.’
‘NO. Nonononono.’ The Muse sticks it’s fingers in it’s ears. ‘La la la I can’t hear you la la la!’
‘Fine, fine, I’ll write it!’ I say in exasperation. And I do. Of course just as I am really getting into that the Muse wanders off to look at some random shiny thing.
It can get pretty annoying. And unlike a two-year-old a Muse cannot be bribed with cookies.