Even if it doesn’t always feel like it.
I was going to end this post there, but I need to add: my muse is a ginormous ass. He has decided, for reasons known only to himself but for which I can at least spot an inkling due to what I have been reading recently, to come dragging back from hiatus, hung over from a 4-month bender and grabbing the toast off my plate like an insolent older brother, and focus his gritty, slit-eyed gaze on a story from YEARS ago rather than something current and useful. It’s a story I want to write, but not right ow…the idea that made me decide to try romance, that I have never quite gotten to hang together, that I put aside to write my Twelfth Night novellas just to prove I could finish something and never went back to in a serious way. I have ungodly amounts of notes, scene sketches, and a start that I will not use because it’s simply too slow and cumbersome to run with or even bother salvaging much of. But it was not in my plans to go back to until I finished other things.
Why that story and not the short I wanted to write for Seb and Julia, as a complement to A Christmastide Courtship? Why that story and not last November’s never-quite-abandoned NaNo project? Why that story and not the novel needing a new opening third?
Sadly I know why: because it’s the only story I have started where the characters are at odds as oppose to indifference, and I have been reading too much conflict as courtship lately. But at a work pace of 100 word per day, a short piece is more practical. And I am above all things a practical creature…
…so I guess it only makes sense that I be saddled with a goddamned dilettante muse with a head in the clouds and his feet in the gutter.
100 is greater than 0. Something is better than nothing. Therefore I cannot complain about my 100 words.
But damn, I want to.