Yesterday started off so innocently.
I sat down at my desk with the perfectly blended cup of coffee–the kind that only happens every few weeks when the coffee gods finally deign to answer my prayerful genuflections in front of the French press–and began to write.
I wrote and wrote and wrote. I wrote so much I could barely manage time for lunch and bathroom breaks because the words poured from my brain and down into my fingertips like an out-of-control firehose.
What an amazing feeling–at least until I realized what was really happening.
My muse is a zombie.
When he/she/it gets on a roll, there’s no stopping until the blood lust is fed. Or in this case, satiation is achieved only after the words finally come to a dripping halt. I finished up my day with over 4,500 well-structured words that, in the cold light of morning, still stand.
Let’s see, word count and decent structure?
Maybe I shouldn’t whine about feeling like a truck ran me over. Maybe this zombie muse has got something going on.
Sure, he/she/it isn’t necessarily the prettiest thing to have around what with the ripped flesh, gaping chest wounds and ratty, smelly clothes but hey, in a world that thinks it’s better to look good than to be good, I’ll take the being good.
Hey zombie muse! Wanna come help me write again today?