I sit at my desk in my writing office, fighting to keep my eyes open. Ever have those days, the ones when you can’t keep your eyes open for some reason? I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling. As I watch, the boring suspended ceiling tiles turn into a mosaic that reminds me of looking through tree leaves to the sky.
A growl outside the office, then a high-pitched whine and sharp BOOM! Then an angry voice touched with an Australian accent. The door to my office opens, and I catch the tail end of the rant. “… I don’t fecking care if you can take down a bewilderbeast. I will kick your sorry ass to World’s End and back.” My Muse closes the door behind him and brushes at a charred hole on the shoulder of his rugby jersey.
“Bloody fecking dragon. This is one of my favorite shirts.” He glares at me. “Why the hell is your conscience a Night Fury? What’s wrong with a cricket?”
“Did you see my writer’s doubt out there?”
“That’s why.” Besides, I love dragons. Always have, especially Anne McCaffery’s Pernese ones. And Temeraire (Naomi Novak). And …
“Judging by the amount of writing you’ve gotten done, I say it’s not doing a very good job keeping Doubt away.” He heads toward a small chest of drawers in a corner of the office, pulls out a purple jersey with an NFL tag on it, then peels off his rugby shirt.
Oh. My. Sigh. I drink in the view of well-toned masculine scenery before he pulls the Vikings jersey on. He meets my eyes with his. “Not that I mind your appreciation, but you need to focus, love.” He tosses the rugby shirt into the trash can beside my desk.
“I’ve gotten the first chapter revised.”
He crosses his arms on his fine chest. “It’s been a week. You haven’t been outside in the garden because of the mosquito swarms, you’ve been home every night, so why have you only done one chapter? You should be through the first quarter of the book by now.”
Something dark flits past.
My Muse snaps his hand out like a snake striking.
An unearthly screech is choked out by his fist around something that reminds me of a Dementor without the whole Edvard Munch Scream thing going on. He shakes it. “This is the deal, Doubt. You leave my writer alone, or I’ll lock you up with her conscience in a tiny, blast-proof room. Then we’ll see how long you last. Got it?”
The thing sticks out its tongue and makes a raspberry sound, then dissipates into a vapor trail that exits through the window.
“It’ll be back.” I lean back to stare at my leafy canopy mosaic.
“Not for a while, love.” His face appears in my field of view. The lines on his forehead and his frown don’t bode well for me. “Get to work.”
I want to. I’m stuck in the rut Doubt dug. I did, however, have a break-through with my first chapter revision. “I’m letting my revision rest.”
He sits on the corner of my desk. “You are procrastinating and you know it. Send the revision to your mentor and let her review it. You need to dig into the rest. Start from the end and work forward. Start from the beginning and work back. Hell, start from the middle and work one direction, I don’t care. You’ve got a pitch party coming up next week.”
“My son’s home this weekend.”
“Your point? He’s only an hour away, and only been at school for a couple weeks. It’s a holiday weekend; you have an extra day to write. Use it.” A fedora appears on his head along with a curled bullwhip in his hand. I can almost hear the theme from Indiana Jones playing in the background. “I’m canceling my pub crawl with Mr. E this weekend so I can stay on your ass.”
Okay, time to buckle down. On the great news front, one of my writing sisters just got a contract for her third MG book, my blogging friend’s latest is selling well, and to top it off, my writing mentor and her writing partner are now listed in the IMDb. Their script is in pre-production. Lots of great stuff happening.
I’ll get there. I know I will. Patience, persistence, and continuing to hone this craft will get me there.
And craft beer.
And dragons. 😀