No writing this past week, no revisions. A bit of reading, yes, and I’m scheduling a post about it for the coming monday.
I tried to post on my Daily (w)rite blog, where I scribble random stuff, sometimes writing things based on prompts. Am going to search for some Blogfests and take part: maybe that’ll get me going.
Not that I’m doing nothing: am running around getting non-writerly stuff done, and thinking about writing. A lot.
But as I sit at my window my muse runs up and down like the cars speeding on the road opposite; or jumps about like the yellow tennis ball between brightly-clad people on the tennis court far below. It ripples like the cerulean-and-silver threads running the length of the swimming pool as a pale, shining, large frog of a man gasps and gulps his way across. It flutters restless like the white summer curtains that want to sail away out to join the downy clouds that stick to the blue sky, but remain tethered back to my window.
What my muse needs is to make some music like the one playing on my radio FM in the background. I need music on the page, but it seems to want to go everywhere else but there, remaining always just out of reach.
I’ll write my way through this, always have done for as long as I’ve been writing. And no, I shall not mention the B-word. Not now, not ever. SO there.