I write every day. Maybe not always here. Maybe not always on paper. Often it's just stray thoughts rambling around in my head, but they begin the moment I realize I'm awake. I very often dream solutions to poems I'm working on, title changes, story endings. I am truly blessed that my only real obligation during the day is to take Rupert for a walk three times a day and to make sure hubby has lunch and dinner. The rest of the day is mine to play with words all I want.
And I've been quite busy lately. I wrote 60 new poems in the past two months.
Two envelopes -- filled with those poems -- now sit on my counter ready for a trip to the post office tomorrow. While I feel great joy in the completion of this project, there's also a sense of sadness that it's done. Those words kept me company through what seemed like an endless winter. I'm not sure what to do with myself now, what to write next.
OK, yeah, I could work on the novel draft that's finally done. My mother-in-law read it and actually liked it. But I didn't somehow. My disappointment lingers and I'm afraid I'll start shredding pages if I read it again.
The muse is a fickle friend indeed. Still, I'm thankful for the ride she gives me now and then.