Stephen King describes his muse in his book On Writing as a gruff man with a cigar hanging from his lips. He says his muse only comes after he's sat working for a bit. I tried my hardest to picture my muse in his way, but alas, the female and male brains really are completely different.
My muse, in my head anyway, looks a little like Amy Lee from Evanescence with blag wings. In my head she's beautiful but as an aloof as a cat, only popping in when she feels I'm worthy of her presence. Though she may not appear everyday, I'm convinced she's at least sending a friend, or fellow muse to watch over me, because though my current story may not flow as easily, something always seems to find itself screaming to put down on paper, or screen if you will.
Even as I sit here, at 7:03am, and before I've had so much as a sip of coffee, my brain is reeling with elements of both my current work in progress and possible future ones. I had started the sequel to The Reluctant King Reece months ago, but the more I think about it, the less I like the momentum of the story, therefore the rewrite is beating against the inside of my skull.
First things first, though. I'm determined to complete Repeated Life within the next few weeks, so if you call or email and I don't get back to immediately, you would be correct to assume I've got the laptop propped on my knees, my eyes glued to the screen, and my fingers are working feverishly on getting out as much as possible.
Until next time, have a great Friday. It's supposed to be a beautiful day.