The Stars and the Chasm

Monday nights after work are usually filled with brain dead activities, because after that first long day of the week, I don’t feel like doing much.  It’s never a good feeling, because you sit there and feel as if you’re empty of energy, that your biorhythms are not only at their lows, but they are never returning to something akin to normal.

It makes it difficult to write, because to write you need your mind, you need your imagination, and when both are stuck in neutral  it means your story isn’t going anywhere.  However, I found my interest being nudged by something that wasn’t actually writing related.  It was, but not that way–

As I’d mentioned yesterday, I needed to put a solar system together for a friend.  It’s not a big deal to do this–I’ve had experience, so you just need to figure out a few things, then go to town getting it done.  But it does take time:  one does not simply wave their hands and a solar system appears.

I brought up my programs, I found some figures, and I started plugging numbers.  When I’d reached the place where I could make from pretty pictures from screen shots to show my writer friend, nearly ninety minutes had come and gone.  This was a good thing, however, as I was now awake.  My mind had begun churning, and by the time I’d zipped together everything I needed to zip off to my friend, the toxins that keep you in a stupor had vanished.

I was awake.  Which meant I could now write.

My own Muse told me that doing something like designing a solar system was sometimes needed, because it broke up the routine and forced the brain to do something else beside what it’s always doing.  If you’re writing all the time, then read or design something–do something that’ll allow your mind to work without working at the same thing again and again.  With me, it was building other worlds.  With you it might be . . . crocheting.  Unless you crochet all the time, then you might want to take up modeling, or something.

With that I found time to write before heading off to bed.  What did I write?

Pain.

My story muse isn’t in a good place right now.  She’s upset, she’s feeling down . . . she’s lonely.  The other night my main male character made a remark about her age.  Um, not good.  Erin the muse isn’t in the right frame of mind to be reminded that she’s older than–well, just about everything.  As she points out, she saw Spartans get their asses kicked at the Hot Gates.  She talked dirty to Cleopatra and gave Nefertiti back rubs.  She was even around before that, which gave Keith, her charge, an idea about how old she really was–

Old and randy.  But that’s another story.

After the heights of system creation, it was time to dig down into the dirt of immortality, and the loneliness it must bring to anyone whose lived long enough to see nearly all of written human history.  You have your friends who are equally immortal, but after a couple of thousand years, who wants to hang with them all the time?  Particularly when you know a fraction of them have to be complete doucherockets, and who wants to put up with that crap?

I feel sorry for my muse, but it’s life.  And Suggestive Amusements is probably going to get a lot sadder before I crawl out of the chasm and back to where I can see the stars.

Hang in there:  it’s gonna be a rough ride.