It's another hot day in Halifax. I'm sitting in one of the coolest places - my office (really the dining room) It has two large windows and a fan, so I'm comfortable and cool, and still in my cotton nightdress. Yesterday was a bitch of a humid day and I had tons of running around to do after my daughters. However, it was critique night with my two partners which is always a highlight of my week. I'm considering getting them to sign a pact in blood that they aren't allowed to move or quit writing. Considering how life happens, and how one of them rarely stays in one city for long, it isn't likely to happen.
And, hold your hats, I'm actually enjoying what I'm writing and I feel good about the last several chapters And when have you ever heard me say that? LOL. I'm getting this thrill when I finish them. They feel right. And it's kind of scary.
(wish my neighbour hadn't just started his lawn mower, it makes me feel guilty that I'm not doing mine)
I never feel "the muse" or for that matter, even know what it is. Would I recognize it/him/her if it sat down beside me? Doubtful. I've marveled at people who talk about the joy in writing because I can't honestly say I've ever felt it. And yes, many times I wonder why I feel the compulsion to write and if I was missing some key ingredient to be a "real" writer. But these last few weeks I've caught a few glimpses that maybe I've taken a few tentative steps towards the inner circle.
Do you feel happy when you finish a scene or chapter? Do you feel a rush of joy at the first draft or the sense of satisfaction when you revise your words into something shiny and smooth? And what about the muse? Do you have one?