So yesterday, I felt like a writer. I wrote, I plotted, I developed characters. I spent most of the day involved in some part of the story within my head, and I felt I made progress with it. It was hard work, but it was rewarding. Nothing of what I did yesterday is ready to be shared with a ‘reader’, but somehow it allowed me to move one step forward and flesh out some of the details that I didn’t even realise were whirring around in my mind.
Interestingly, what I found myself doing was a trick I remember reading somewhere that, at the time, I thought a little bit odd: I had a ‘conversation’ with myself. The way it was done when I read about it was written between the left and right hand – so as to allow the two sides of the brain to converse. I didn’t manage this – what I did notice, however, was that I would write a question out – something that bothered me about the plot of the novel I have hidden inside the neurons of my brain – and then I would be silent. Amazingly, out of the ether the answer appeared on the page, my hand controlled by the part of me that has those little nuggests of information stored away already, that already knows more than I can imagine.
Essentially, I guess you could say I was speaking with my muse. Yesterday, my muse and I were on grand terms. Whatever I asked, I received an answer. It made me feel good, it made me feel like a real writer.
Today, for some reason, I am reluctant to fall down the rabbit hole again. I don’t want to ask too much, too soon. I suppose I don’t want to scare my muse away. But it feels as though she is tugging at my brain cells, coaxing me out to play. And I daren’t refuse, lest she never calls again.