The light bulb moment. Let's start this by me complaining about my muse. My muse is evil. My muse is never available when I need it. My muse spends a lot of time waiting for the right time to strike. When is the right time? When I'm busy, in the middle of something, finishing a report for work, finishing a paper for school. I feel those ice cold lips on my ear whisper what if.
My friends know that look, the look of insanity and inspiration I get. I'll grab whatever's close and whatever will make a mark, sometimes I'll even write on myself. Then I spend time looking like a strange automatic writer (these are people, usually mediums, that let spirits communicate through them in the form of writing). This might not be a bad way to write a book, except most of it looks like scribbles. Very similar to my writing most of the time.
My current light bulb went off after a night of gaming. We were discussing some of the new races that had been developed and a half-demon was mentioned. Flash forward to the next day at a friends apartment. He's talking about a new game he wants to show me, then bam. I spend the next hour writing the opening scene to the second trilogy I planned to write while he played video games. I know, a little odd. So is the muse.
My other ideas have came from conversations with inebriated friends, bad jokes, and staring at the moon.
Welcome to my nightmare . . . I am a writer.
The muse cares not what else you're doing! Mine always whispers during those moments I can't possibly get away to write. She's a bit sadistic that way!
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