I haven't written much in the past month. Some of it was on purpose. I went on my honeymoon last month and stopped writing about a week or so before after finishing chapter four. There were other things happening in my life as well. Sometimes life is like a washing machine. It is clogged up and full and churning and rumbling and sometimes you just can't fit anything more in there. You have to wait until the cycle stops, you can unload some things, and then maybe you can fit some more stuff onto your plate. That's been me. I have been home from my honeymoon for a month and have been forgetting to write. The few times I have remembered to write I have either not been motivated at all, feeling lazy, or guilty and wondering why I did not want to write.
I was waiting for the urge to come back. The longing. The craving. The lust. My muse is a mysterious, flighty thing. It visits me at the most irritating times sometimes. I could be on a bus, a train, in the pool, in the cinema or at work. Usually, far away from my writing, and unable to do anything but wait until I get home.
In this situations when I get hit by that precious, wonderful lightning bolt of inspiration, not having access to a computer or a pen or the time to write something down is the most irritating, painful sensation. It's like being hit with an urge to take a powerful drug. You crave it. You want it. And you'll burst through a wall, incredible Hulk style, and anything else in your path to try and get it.
Why does my muse come at the most irritating times? I am sitting here, at a quarter to nine at night, and I know I should be in bed because my husband will be getting up at a quarter to four in the morning to go to work. But I am sitting here riding the wave of my muse because this is the first time in a month that it has come to visit.
Most days I force myself to write. It's a chore. Riding the muse is like a theme park ride. It makes it fun again. It gives me a rush.
Also, it reminds me something important. I am a writer. Even if I take a month long break and sometimes forget to write. I need to listen to myself. Maybe I forget because I need to relax and just read a book. When my body and mind is ready to write again it tells me. Because it becomes all I can think about.