Fucking Inspiration

After firing the piece off to the chief editor - safe in the knowledge she'd be better than well pleased with it - I stayed on my roll, cranking out the required short pieces for the coming week in no time at all. I then went into the short stories that had recently had me stymied and I got them cleaned up and completed, very much to my satisfaction. And with great relish, I spent the next seventy-two hours putting the long-awaited final touches on my first novel, bringing it to a First Draft state of completion and ready for a round of self-editing prior to seeking out beta-readers and manuscript combers, finally primed on the path to publication.

And my Muse? I never saw her again. Truth be told, I cannot be entirely sure she exists. The events of that dream-state were so vivid and felt so real. Honestly though, with the pressure I'd been under and the cocktail of drugs I'd been imbibing, I was due for either a release or a total nervous breakdown - it was a fifty-fifty shot either way, I reckon.

Still though, I have my suspicions as to the realness of that dream, and the actuality of her existence. Strong suspicions. Proof in the pudding: as though it was a story she didn't want to be told, I had started writing this tale of Fucking Inspiration in 2011, and only now in late 2014 after getting stuck, forgetting about it, finding it, getting stuck again, losing it, finding it again, and so forth have I completed it...

And finally, besting my fickle Muse once again!