Writing is like dating. You set a place and a time, maybe open a bottle of wine. If the first experience doesn’t absolutely suck, then you decide to do it again. Some people dive right back in the next day, while others wait a week.
Initially, my muse would wake me up about an hour after bedtime. She’d coax me to abandon sleep and write deliriously amazing things until three in the morning.
And then she wouldn’t call. She wouldn’t write. The b*tch wouldn’t even text. I was forgotten for weeks on end.
This muse was a great mistress, but she sure wasn’t marriage material.
When I tried to pinpoint what went wrong with our relationship, I realized I had expected her to always make the first move. She wasn’t getting the time or attention she needed. And subsequently, I wasn’t getting past first base.
The muse didn’t seem to mind losing me, but I missed her deeply.
So I decided to ask her out on a date this time. In the middle of the day. It was weird. She showed up in curlers and a terry cloth robe.
I wrote crap for about three weeks’ worth of these “date days”. But I kept showing up at her door, and she kept letting me inside.
And then one day she opened the door wearing…