Since when does my Muse knock? Eh, whatever. I adjust my position against the smooth hide of my Night Fury conscience and go back to staring at the lake stretching out before me.
Grass whispers as he makes his way to my perch on the shore of the lake outside my writing office. “Looks like someone turned the color off.”
I suppose one could say that. Today the sky is filled with clouds in that dull, depressing gray so common in autumn after the trees lose their leaves. It’s the color that often heralds an icy rain. He’s right, everything seems to have lost any luster. The grass is muted. The lake reflects the grumbling sky. Even the white bark of the birches looks covered in smoky haze.
“Leave me alone. I’m wallowing.”
My conscience shifts, stretches a wing, then curls back into a ball. I lean against it, enjoying its warmth at my back.
“Can’t let you do that, love.”
“You do know what happened this week, right?” I try not to think about the consequences of having a narcissistic, misogynistic, thin-skinned, tantrum-throwing bully running my country. So, I turn my thoughts to the loss of my favorite uncle, the one who was a composer, musician, and who showed me the wonderful old part of Salzburg.
“Yes. And you’ve had days to grieve. Now it’s time to get back to work. You spent the 14-hour drive time to Ohio and back reviewing your manuscript. Good job. Now you need to make those revisions.”
“I know. It’s on my list for this weekend and next week. The agent doesn’t want me to send her anything until the week of Thanksgiving, anyway.”
He sits beside me, legs crossed, and leans against my conscience’s haunch. “You can’t let yourself be dragged down, love. It slows everything down.”
Thunder rumbles across the sky. A breeze with an icy edge mars the smooth lake surface. “I can take a day to mope.”
“You’ve already done that. Now, get off your ass and get those revisions done.”
“I don’t even need to send the manuscript until the week of Thanksgiving. She doesn’t want it before then.”
My Muse sighs. “That’s no reason to slack off, love. She also said to take your time.”
I have to stand. I have to find a way to shake the malaise.
The cloudy sky clears. Brilliant blue glows, lending its color to the lake, which swells into an ocean expanse to the horizon. White-barked birches morph into brown-skinned tropical trees complete with palm fronds, papayas, and coconuts. The chilly breeze warms.
Honestly, yes. But I don’t want to let him know that. “I’m not done wallowing.”
He stands and lays a hand on my shoulder. “You are now. Let’s get this done.”
Okay. Time to move forward. The tough thing sometimes is to let go of what is out of your control. Kinda like wanting to control what a teenager does when she’s not at home, between school’s end and the time they get home. Is she really doing her homework?
Anyway, looking forward to a quiet weekend to work on my WIP. For those NaNo-ers out there, you should be a 25,000 words by the end of the weekend (see, I pay attention even if I’m not playing this year).
Enjoy your weekend! Write on!