It is one thing to write when the muse visits, when inspiration strikes or a scene bursts forth fully formed...it is entirely another to attempt to turn writing into a daily task. I am working on a novel. I'm in love with it, but I am needing to end it and struggling with the reality and finality of it. Usually I follow the characters and let them drive the car, per se, but now I need to convince them to compromise and let me drive the last 10 miles. They aren't so keen on that. It is slow going.
Today I settled in at Borders with a cup of coffee and my laptop. I'd done some intense brainstorming with my favorite writer friend last night and felt ready. Boy, was the universe not interested in that. I did manage 1400 words; I also managed to move the scene along to the next logical conflict...but not without eavesdropping on what appeared to be a group therapy session, and some juicy local gossip that had nothing to do with anyone I know or have ever known. Basically, I couldn't get the focused brain going even though I knew where I wanted to head.
Frustrating. Now I am home with pretty window crafts baking in the oven. I find myself hoping that I can harness the energy from last night when Bumblebee goes to bed and crank out another 1500 or so words.
Ever arm wrestled a muse? Tricky stuff, that.
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