I am currently going through the insanity of over commitment and my muse has rebelled.
When you’re first struggling to get published, it seems like forever. No one wants your stuff. You feel like you’re writing in a vacuum. No one likes you. You become inured to the inevitable rejection letter. And then you get your first sale. After that the terror brews… can I do it again?
Now, I certainly don’t want to go back to those days, however a little less insanity might help. I have, to my delight and chagrin, become known as a “can do” writer. My editors come to me and say… hey someone dropped out of this anthology can you get us something. This is a sweet and seductive trap. How can I say no? My editor LOVES me. “Sure,” I say, “I’ll pitch in.”
I look up from my desk at my day job… because this writing addiction doesn’t pay the bills by a long shot… and peruse the Work In Progress sheet. So I have two weeks to write 12-20k, no special theme (my editor will take pretty much anything at this point). Shouldn’t be horrid, I tell myself. Let’s see, its April. I have a 5k short due by the end of April and a 10k short due by 5/31. Oh and there are those two half done novels that my editors want by 7/1 – 30k a piece on them. No problemo. I crack open a blank word document to jot some notes and work out how I’m going to make it all work.
The muse at that point packs his bags and takes a walk. I’ve left my dirty underwear on the floor one too many times at this point. He cannot deal with the constant demands of another story. The spontaneity is gone from our relationship and he’s pretty P.O.’d at me.
Right now I’m attempting to woo him back with promises of Were-Scorpion porn. Empty air rattles around my brain. Or maybe that boss/intern piece we’ve been toying with. Bondage, you know you like it, I whisper. Dead silence. Okay, we can pull out that file of cop cos-play Reb sent us, you and me and half dressed guys with badges… that would be fun right? No answer.
So far I think he’s moved in with my fellow author Mychael Black’s muse, but that hasn’t been confirmed ye. So now I’m trying to get back on track. I know I can do it. I’ll sit down and crank out something. I will suffer through it. And when I’ve put a dent the exact size of my head into the surface of my desk, the muse will come slinking back and I’ll hear a snickered, “no we don’t want to write that, scorpions aren’t dead sexy without…” buzz inside my head, and I’ll know he’s back