The Lull

The Punk book deadline has been pushed to after the New Year and I can't proceed with any of my plans until the designer does his part. So now I wait... and sit... and spend too much time cruising Facebook and surfing from link to link within interesting articles on the net. Hours pass and I accomplish nothing, other than read about the idea that the semi-colon is "girly."

There isn't a "next book" to edit for the press, so for the first time since starting Medusa's Muse I have a break. It feels the same way as when you send your novel off to the agent or editor and are forced to wait for feedback before working on it. What do you do while you wait? Start work on another project? Read a book? Pick your nose?

My muse keeps nagging me about my novel and my play and the three short stories begging to be finished. "You have all this time right now. You should be WRITING."

I know,I know. I also have bookkeeping to do for Medusa's Muse and my own book I could be marketing better than I am. But I've lost my momentum, and even though I have the desire and creative spark fueling scenes for my stories, I can't seem to pick up a pen, or laptop, and get them down into actual words. Instead, I daydream dialogue.

Without a deadline driven whip at my back DEMANDING I get work done NOW, I can't be productive.

"I've lost my edge," I say.

My muse laughs. "I can't believe you sometimes."

"Why are you laughing at me?"

"Because you're so dramatic."

"I'm a writer. And I have a BA in drama. What do you expect?"

She pushes papers aside on my desk and sits. "You're recharging, that's all. You've spent the last two years being absolutely productive and focused, publishing two books, one of which you wrote, preparing for a third, all while going to graduate school, raising your child and writing a full length play. For goodness sake, girl, you need to relax a little." She picks up the Ballerina Barbie beside my laptop. "Plus, your grandmother died last month and you had surgery three weeks ago. Your heart and your body are still healing."

I watch her as she positions the doll into a perfect pirouette and balances it on the tip of her middle finger. The doll slowly begins to spin on point.

My Muse smiles as she watches the doll dance. "You worry too much about the outcome. Just write. Don't worry about finishing a story or getting it published. Now is the time to rest, create, recharge, and heal." With a delicate flip of her finger, the doll leaps into the air and lands on the desk where it holds its position for a moment, then falls across my laptop's keyboard.

I pick up the doll and smooth out her hair. "You may be right."

"I'm always right," my Muse says.