My muse is on hiatus.
No, seriously. She’s gone of vacation.
I try to kick her in the pants and tell her that we need to work, but she’s being difficult. She’s also singing a lot of Barry Manilow, which is both useless and weird.
I’ve tried listening to inspirational music. No, I don’t necessarily mean Enya and Yanni. More like Nine Inch Nails and Mumford and Sons and Johnny Cash. I’ve done bright and happy music, and I’ve done the tortured stuff.
Nope, the muse is still busy singing Barry Manilow.
I do like pina coladas, and I suppose getting caught in the rain is nice when you live in the desert… Wait, wait, wait. We’re supposed to be thinking about the tortured black moment, not having Barry Manilow on constant replay.
I thought cleaning might help. Something mindless where I can just let my mind wander. I turned on the tunes and set about scrubbing dishes. And suddenly I’m thinking about a girl named Lola. Who may or may not have been a showgirl.
Then I thought cooking might help. I like to cook. I can be creative, get something accomplished, and sometimes the muse will strike while I’m doing something creative where my brain isn’t necessarily actively engaged.
Do I know anyone named Mandy?
All this work, and the muse gave me nothing but a stomachache… But the cranberry chutney was really good. I think I’ll make it again on Thursday.
So here I sit at my computer composing blog posts. I’ve done my book reviews for the next two weeks, and scheduled them to be published. I’ve recorded a bunch of westerns to watch. I read another book. The dishes are done, and I’ve finally made a dent in the mountain of laundry I’d allowed to pile up because I was so busy I couldn’t see straight.
Though, muse, I want you to know that I can’t smile without you.
And that about sums it up.
What about you? What do you do when your muse has decided to go on hiatus without your consent?
Meggan Connors‘ next book will probably be called If You LIke Pina Coladas, Mandy’s at the Copacabana. I smell a bestseller.