OK. So you’re sat there, pen in hand, expectantly waiting for… Nothing. Zip, nada, zilch, nothing. And where’s the blasted muse when you need her? Sunbathing in Barbados. Admiring the view from Table Mountain. Travelling the Old Silk Road. In fact, she’s anywhere but where she’s supposed to be! Typical.
And alright, I’ll forgive her the last two, ‘cause when she finally does roll in there’ll be an idea or three tagging along. The trouble is, you need her now, not when she gets back from Kathmandu!
So what do you do? Put the kettle on. Get the percolator going. Stick a chocolate cake in the oven. And start writing. About what? Anything. Everything. The state of the economy. The fact that you’d like to send the kids, and the other half, come to think of it, on a very long walk off a very short pier. That the neighbours are from hell, and quite frankly the quicker they go back there, the better. Doesn’t matter. Not only does it get it out of your system, it gets the ink flowing, too. If you’re lucky, there might be the germ of an idea there… Who needs the muse, anyway, right?
Because even if it’s complete and utter – er – manure, it’ll wake the muse up. Drag her off her beach towel, and remind her that the view from the top is usually better for a glass of wine and a meal.
But if you don’t turn the coffee machine on, or take the cake from the oven, she’s not going to come storming back telling you it’s flat, that you need mores chocolate in it, or that the coffee needs to be Irish, thank you very much. And no. She won’t be happy with you for dragging her away from the beach. But at least she’s not frying herself because she’s forgotten the sun-screen.