"Discipline allows magic. To be a writer is to be the very best of assassins. You do not sit down and write every day to force the Muse to show up. You get into the habit of writing every day so that when she shows up, you have the maximum chance of catching her, bashing her on the head, and squeezing every last drop out of that bitch."
-Lili St. Chow
It comes out of nowhere. Its as if in one moment, I have all the words in the world flooding my mind as I rush to get them onto the screen and then, just as quick as they come, they are gone. A title wave swoops in and destroys my brain, taking every last word with it.
It ebbs and flows. It's seasonal. It's experiential. It's a creative spark that bursts into a flame consuming me, almost feverishly, until it's done and put out by the water of my being.
It drives me nuts. It's annoying. I am a writer damn it. This cannot be happening to me.
Why can't I always have words? Why can't I always connect with this higher part of my self that consumes me with those beautiful, magical, inspiring words?
I sit and stare at the blinking curser, cursing at the screen as it taunts me, arguing with the voice within. "You were born to write these words Amanda. Only you." I hear. "What words? I don't have any freakin' words. Give me the words and I will write them. I promise. I will write the friggin' words! Whatever you want, I'll write!" I say back. "They are in you Amanda. They are always there. They are waiting"
I roll my eyes and close my computer screen and go make food.
"When are you going to write your book Amanda" I hear three times in one week.
Pressure. I feel the pressure now. Now the words will never come.
"When are you going to write the follow-up post Amanda? Don't wait too long. We are eager."
Don't you understand? That isn't how it works for me. Words aren't just there. They come, out of what feels like nowhere but they are not coming now. I broke it.
"You didn't break it." I hear a voice say in that distant place in my mind. "You are merely in waiting. Be patient. They'll come again."
"F THIS. I'm sick of waiting. I'll move on. I will. Don't tempt me!. I'll find something else to consume this raw energy bubbling up from within. If you won't give me the words, I will find some other way of getting it out of me. I'll paint and cut and shape and dance and burn this fire deep within out into the word. If I can't write it. I will find some other way. You just wait and see. You will not waste me any longer. You just wait and see."
Still, there are no words.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.