Melinda Clayton's Blog - Posts Tagged "writer-s-block"
My angry muse
My muse and I haven’t been getting along. It’s her fault entirely, of course. It usually is.
As I type this, I can sense her sitting on the corner of the desk to my right. She’s just sitting there with arms crossed and lips puckered, watching me. She’s a tiny thing, a nymph, dressed in a diaphanous gown the color of emeralds. It’s flowing around her in the breeze created by the ceiling fan.
She has long red hair, the curls corkscrewing down her back and pooling on the oak of my desk. (Seriously? she says, tossing her hair. Corkscrewing? Pfffftttt. Overdone.).
That’s a little harsh, I say.
She doesn’t respond. She just sits there looking at me, swinging one bare foot.
I swear this is how she looks.
And she’s not happy with me.
You never want to piss off a muse.
As I type this, I can sense her sitting on the corner of the desk to my right. She’s just sitting there with arms crossed and lips puckered, watching me. She’s a tiny thing, a nymph, dressed in a diaphanous gown the color of emeralds. It’s flowing around her in the breeze created by the ceiling fan.
She has long red hair, the curls corkscrewing down her back and pooling on the oak of my desk. (Seriously? she says, tossing her hair. Corkscrewing? Pfffftttt. Overdone.).
That’s a little harsh, I say.
She doesn’t respond. She just sits there looking at me, swinging one bare foot.
I swear this is how she looks.
And she’s not happy with me.
You never want to piss off a muse.
The scary Google history of a writer (or, "I'm screwed if anyone ever searches my computer")
Last night (or more accurately, very early this morning) as I Googled standard prison intake procedures, it hit me that if ever misfortune were to befall my family and our computer became evidence...I'm screwed.
That's admittedly a morbid line of thinking, but that's what happens when you've spent hours and hours researching innocent looking ways to kill people. It's also what happens when you haven't had enough sleep, are maxed out on allergy meds, and decided to top it all off with a glass of wine. But that's another topic.
Just for the heck of it, I hit the little arrow beside my Google bar to review the topics I've searched within the last couple of days (days during which I've finally broken through writer's block and added a couple of chapters to my work in progress). Search results included: Postpartum psychosis. Mass murder. Brain injury. Death penalty. Suffocation. Shock. Prison intake procedure. Vera Bradley bags.
Okay, that last one falls into the category of "One of these things is not like the other...." But you see my point.
A couple of times I found myself on question-and-answer blogs that gave some really good information regarding what to expect if you're ever arrested. I don't anticipate ever needing that information, but I'll file it away just in case.
It was even worse a couple of years ago when I did a brief stint as a fact-checker for an online writing site. There was no rhyme or reason to the articles assigned, so on any given day my Google search history might look something like: Brad Pitt. Amphibians. Fungi of North American forests. Signs and symptoms of scabies. Home remedies for flatulence.
I suppose my point is, if the occasion ever arises, please don't judge me based on my search history. It may say I'm a scabies infested, snake loving, homicidal mother plagued with uncomfortable bloating. But I'm not. No, I'm just a quiet writer with a fairly uneventful life. I swear it.
That's admittedly a morbid line of thinking, but that's what happens when you've spent hours and hours researching innocent looking ways to kill people. It's also what happens when you haven't had enough sleep, are maxed out on allergy meds, and decided to top it all off with a glass of wine. But that's another topic.
Just for the heck of it, I hit the little arrow beside my Google bar to review the topics I've searched within the last couple of days (days during which I've finally broken through writer's block and added a couple of chapters to my work in progress). Search results included: Postpartum psychosis. Mass murder. Brain injury. Death penalty. Suffocation. Shock. Prison intake procedure. Vera Bradley bags.
Okay, that last one falls into the category of "One of these things is not like the other...." But you see my point.
A couple of times I found myself on question-and-answer blogs that gave some really good information regarding what to expect if you're ever arrested. I don't anticipate ever needing that information, but I'll file it away just in case.
It was even worse a couple of years ago when I did a brief stint as a fact-checker for an online writing site. There was no rhyme or reason to the articles assigned, so on any given day my Google search history might look something like: Brad Pitt. Amphibians. Fungi of North American forests. Signs and symptoms of scabies. Home remedies for flatulence.
I suppose my point is, if the occasion ever arises, please don't judge me based on my search history. It may say I'm a scabies infested, snake loving, homicidal mother plagued with uncomfortable bloating. But I'm not. No, I'm just a quiet writer with a fairly uneventful life. I swear it.
