My writer is still staring at the page in her notebook. I have to shake my head. She’s been good, she really has, but now she’s, well, I’m not quite sure. Trying to shove creative energy into her now is like trying to cram an overstuffed pillow into a pillowcase. I never thought she’d get like this after she’d been doing so well.
“Are you seriously writing my blog post?”
I glance up at her kicked back in one of the recliners in the corner of her writing office. She looks like a writer deep in thought.
I know better.
“Yes, love. Trying to, anyway. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I already drafted a post. I was going to …”
“Delete it? Good idea.” I’m not sure what her problem is, but I suspect it has to do with anxiously waiting for something out of her control. She’s usually pretty good, but this time it’s strangling her creativity. Binge-watching “Supernatural” isn’t helping, either. Honestly, I’m a little jealous.
“No.” She heaves a sigh and tosses her notebook into the other recliner before getting to her feet. “Why are you writing a post anyway?”
I lean back in the desk chair. The bushings squeak like tiny mice. “Because I can’t do anything else right now. You’re blocking me, love.”
She stares at me. “I’m what?”
“You’re blocking me.” It’s been a long time since this has happened. She wasn’t happy about how I fixed it last time, but it was effective.
“What do you mean, blocking you? You’re here, not off on a pub crawl with Mr. E, which, by the way, you should avoid until he’s off house-arrest. Mae’s got him on lockdown until she finishes her project.” She plants her hands and leans on the desk. “I’m stuck.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve got your rough outline, you just need to revisit it.”
“That’s what I’m doing.”
She’s been frustrating–aggravating–in the past, but this is a special kind of frustration. “No, you’re not. Open up to me, love. Stop thinking about what might happen. I can’t do my job when you’re like this.”
Her forehead furrows. A lock of hair escapes her barrette and falls into her eyes. Faded denim. That’s what they look like. Her eyes. You should see them when she’s talking about her last WIP, all bright and excited. I love it. She really hit on something with that. I think she misses it, the whole aviation thing. It was dead easy to energize her when she was working on that last project.
Maybe I’ve gotten too used to the “easy” of it. I wonder …
“I’m trying not to. That’s why I’m working on this WIP. I’ve almost got the historical plotline worked out.”
“You could do what your writing teacher suggested. Write a short or two with Sierra and Quinn.”
Her eyes brighten for a moment. “What if that book doesn’t go anywhere? I need to work on this one. I can’t wait around for something to happen with that one. If I can get this one–”
“Then do it, love.” I shove to my feet and lean over the desk. “Stop pushing back and let me do my job. Remember what happened the last time you blocked me?”
“You keep saying that. I’m not blocking you.”
I have to smile. She’s so cute when she forgets I’m her Muse with a capital “M”. There’s a few scenes in her WIP that will work just fine as reminders. I’ll start with the heated argument scene. Nothing like a bit of angst with that whole suppressed desire thing going on.
She straightens. Stops breathing for a moment while her eyes widen. Heh. Gotcha.
“Stop that,” she breaths.
I send creative energy toward her. It hovers, starts to sink in. Stops. Bloody hell. “Remember now? Stop blocking me or I’ll move on to the basement scene.”
“Don’t you dare,” she breathes.
There it is. An opening. I shove creative energy again and this time it sinks in. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
She rolls her eyes and returns to her recliner. “Asshat.”
Yep, too much “Supernatural.” “Jerkface.”
Get your writing groove on this weekend, or I’ll have to talk to your muses.
And yes, I can do that. I’ve got a capital “M”.