When it comes to writing, I have to fess up to something. I lack the official government number that sees me paying the appropriate tax. As a result, it’s fine that I call myself a writer, but the government considers me a Hobbyist.
You and I both know how one day that will change. When the contract is signed and the royalty cheques start rolling in–all $18.75, which is no way near close enough to fund a direct supply of Snyders of Hanover beauties–I’ll get that super-tax number. When that happens I’ll be able to claim the cost of my postage, as well as the computer I use to be creative. Best of all, I’ll be able to call myself a professional, and yes Ms E, that sounds so much better than word whore.
There’s just one small, teesy-weensy, itty-bitty detail that’s stuck in my craw about all this lately. The title Hobbyist seems to have lulled me into a near coma. In the last month I’ve written absolutely nada.
That’s right Bitey-ites, the muse is sleeping.
Or maybe she’s on vacation. I hear South America is lovely at this time of the year.
Wherever she is, it’s plain I’m not getting any writing done.
You say, "That’s because you’re spending so much time dicking around on facebook."
I’d be inclined to agree with you, but the reason I’m dicking around on facebook chatting with Marv and Fritz is directly related to the snoozin’ muse. I’m pretty certain if I force it to wake up whatever comes out on the page will most likely be total crap.
You say, "Sounds like writer’s block to me."
That’s a big fat nega-tory good buddy. I know what happens next. I know what goes where. I know who does what to whom. I simply can’t o get the muse out of bed. Could be the nip in the morning air. Could be the lack of afternoon sunshine as we shift into autumn. Could be the fact I’ve been sharing a bathroom with Shrinky while my bathroom undergoes a major overhaul.
Nope. I’m not worried. I’ve noticed, that’s all. So has Shrinky, who you just know wants to read something head-shrinky into it.
This has happened before. Kinda. I once lost my reading mojo. It came back and I’m certain The slumbering muse will yawn and stretch and come to life (thank you Dolly Parton). When she does you can bet I’ll have the coffee waiting. But, before that happens, I think I’ll take up tiling and grouting because everybitey needs a hobby.