Muse

I need to write.

There was a time when this drove me. This need. Like breathing. Like desire. I couldn't not write. It's an disease, an illness . . . to be unable to write would have driven me mad. See Quills for the ultimate illustration of this.

There were times when I simply had no time in the day to write. There were times when I had the time, but no energy. I was too worn out. But I never worried about being unable to write when I put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. I might have a dry spell of weeks or months, and then my muse would wrap her hands around my throat and commence terrorizing me again.

And then, sometime when I wasn't looking, I grew up. I discovered that my primary calling is not to be a writer. I discovered that I could be happy doing other things. While I still enjoyed crafting stories, sometimes I just had no ideas. And I started to wonder if, by discovering this world in which one could live and not write, I had lost something. The hunger, the madness, the passion, the incessant drive to put words on paper simply to get them out of my head.

But lately, I've begun to have ideas again. Nothing coherent, nothing useful, just enough to keep the back of my brain simmering and seething and make it hard to sleep. And today, here she is again, the muse with the baseball bat in one hand and dagger-like talons on the other. And . . .

. . . I need to write. And i need to write something

that bleeds.