My muse has a mind of its’ own. When it’s on it is like a runaway train. Unstoppable. When it’s off it is like a train-wreck. Unmovable. It takes a couple of hours in the morning to gather myself. During these couple of hours I find out if my muse is on or off.
If my muse is on I can write or record music all day, barely stopping to eat or for a cigarette. At the moment I am going through a writing phase. It is nothing for me to write numerous pages of a book that I may be working on or countless blog entries or poems and save them as drafts to avoid overloading people. I’m a wee bit paranoid like that.
I have the television switched on merely as a background noise for fear of developing sensory deprivation.
If I wake up in the morning and get myself together and my muse is off, then I’m stuck. I have no fresh ideas for writing or recording as I had done the previous day. Nothing interests me. The television doesn’t interest me much at the best of times. Reading a current book doesn’t interest me either.
On these off days I’ll frequently go and lie on my bed and try to force my muse to return. It can’t be done. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t get depressed. The day drags as I drag away at cigarette after cigarette.
My muse follows no pattern. There are no triggers that I am aware of that switch it on or off.
I wonder what my muse will do tomorrow.