Anyone who writes knows there are days when it happens, and then there are days (or weeks, or months) when it doesn't. Friday was one of those rare, golden mornings that arrives streaming light and clarity, swarming with characters and visions solid enough to catch in your bare, cupped hands. This was the day, the first in years, for true, serious, joyful work. Calm, centered, ready, I sat down at the keyboard, placed my hands on the keys, closed my eyes ... and realized I was about to be late for my job. I sighed, and cried, and picked up the keys to the car instead.
I promised the Muse I'd be back tomorrow; I have Saturday off this week. Oh wait, make it Saturday afternoon, there's an appointment in the morning. OK, the appointment got rescheduled for the afternoon at the last minute, and I've just remembered I promised Sunday to someone else. Saturday evening, though, for sure ... except, now there's an offer I can't refuse for that, too. (And why am I not enthused about it, the family asks? It's supposed to be fun. Don't I want to spend time with them?)
Not that it matters anymore. The Muse is a jealous and unforgiving goddess. Turn your back on her, and she's gone. Worse, when she's really pissed off, she throws as many obstacles in your path as she can. It's a love/hate thing that goes both ways.
So. I hereby proclaim Hazy Holiday number three: Follow Your Heart Day. There's no particular date for it; you'll know it when you see it. When it comes, grab it. No matter what the cost.