Yup. She's running late. She's doing it on purpose, you know? She's mad at me. Having her little temper tantrum, dropping vowels and double dipping into the punctuation bin.
I don't know why she's acting like this. Is it my fault I have two books in revision? Is it my fault I went away for the weekend with The Man Behind The Curtain and left her at home? Is it my fault she got into the printer toner, sucked up all the good ink and was left with the hangover from hell?
I mean, come on, she's all pouty and sick and she missed the trash can and now I'm stuck cleaning up her mess? Where's the loyalty and respect in that? She acts like I can throw down a new storyline every time she wants to get some action.
She's all ...
It doesn't work like that. She may be all hot and lathered, but I need a little more foreplay - a touch of romance even. I can't just jump on the keyboard and start pounding away at her any, uh. Where was I?
Oh, yeah - the keyboard. Typing away at her ideas whenever she feels like dropping them off. It's like a teenager returning with loads of dirty laundry at the end of the college term.
IT'S NOT MY PROBLEM.
And she's such a bitch about it too. She gets all up in my temporal lobes, filling my nights with weird dreams, then she busts down the door to the occipitals and mashes in a bunch of equally weird visions and hallucinations.
Helloooo? Try driving much while images flash by like a slide show on crack?
I would tie her up and lock her in the closet but she'd like that. Bondage: it's her thing.
So, instead I try and dash a few notes down here and there. Story ideas, character sketches, scenes from bars and diners and beds that... Well - I'm just glad no one else has access to my computer.
It could be worse. I could have my CP's muse. She's been sending her images of Zombie sex and a fat China man who can't - uh - perform.
You, know, in comparison, my muse isn't too bad after all. Maybe I'll take her out for a short story this weekend, just so she feels appreciated.