Wherein the Muse Switches Gears & Asks “What the fuck do you really want?”

My reply to the Muse was, “Surely, I only want what You want.”

Which sometimes is not true. Sometimes, it seems I only want what I can’t possibly have at that moment.

This goes back to the day after my most recent post, wherein I had such a difficult time with Chapter 12/b. of Blessed By Light. And was perturbed by the disappearance of 17 hours from my getting-shorter-by-the-minute life, when I felt I should have been working on the revisions of the TV pilot instead. (I guess I’m going to turn my creativity into a moral issue now. Sounds healthy.)

The following morning, out of bed I leapt, knowing that the remainder of Chapter 12/b. was awaiting me!

Well, 2 pages came out immediately but then – nothing. Suddenly, out came revisions for the TV pilot.

I’m not knocking it, because they’re good revisions. They had way more depth than I was expecting. But still. I was, like, “But Chapter 12/b. is still just hanging there…”

The Muse: “But yesterday you carried on like a big baby, wanting the TV pilot, blocking me at every turn while I tried to give you really good pages on the new novel.  So, today I’m giving you the pages of the TV pilot – pages you cried and carried on about for 17 hours yesterday – and now you’re getting all pissy because you want the rest of the novel. Why don’t you just tell me what the heck you want? Hm? How ’bout it? Tell me: what the heck do you want? Why don’t you just give it some thought – you know, get some of that clarity you’re so famous for – and then get back to me once you figure out what the heck it is you want.” (Contrary to the title of this post, my Muse does not actually use the “F” word – I’m the only one in the room who uses the “F”-word – and, at that, quite constantly.)

Then he went on a little holiday for a couple of days, wherein, I sat in the room alone and fumed and became complacent and worried and did some other stuff.

Well, today we’re working again on the TV pilot, because the Muse and I had a little chat last night while I was driving home late in the car; wherein, I said, very compliantly, “You just choose what we’re working on tomorrow, and when I wake up in the morning, I will know what you’ve decided we’re working on and whatever you decide, I know I am going to be really, really happy about. How does that sound?”

I’m actually not really kidding.  This Muse I’ve got now is full of vitality, and personality, and emotions. I can actually tune into him when he’s around. It’s remarkable and it’s amazing and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

(Yes, in case you’re curious, I do sometimes wonder if I’m completely fucking nuts. However, I figure that if I’m getting good work done, and I’m still able to function as if I at least look completely normal – i.e., pay bills, do chores, show up for work – then it doesn’t actually matter anymore if I am nuts. It’s all about the writing now.  I’m not a spring chicken anymore. I’m a very late-fall chicken, heading into early winter. All I really care about anymore is to get my work done.) (Okay, well, that and sex.)

Me as a spring chicken. Cleveland, 1962 or 1963. I’m with my older adopted brother. I have not seen him in literally decades.

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