It’s been since August of last year that I have had an opportunity to post. No apologies I was needed elsewhere caring for my sister who was on a journey with lung cancer. Her journey has moved on now to somewhere I cannot follow. I miss her.
I’ll be back in the future when my spirit lightens again. Thank you to those who stuck with me…
BTW… the Muse Cat came home.
Inky: two bottles of wine, and I’m still not over my hero’s actions. Sheesh the man’s gonna kill me, never mind what he’s doing to his girl. Okay, I’ve got to get in the shower…
Image: found at pinterest
Inky: Me heading to work…
Toon: as noted: Mike Kafe
The muse is not an angelic voice that sits on your shoulder and sings sweetly. The muse is the most annoying whine. The muse isn’t hard to find, just hard to like – [he] follows you everywhere, tapping you on the shoulder, demanding that you stop doing whatever else you might be doing and pay attention to [him].
Truism: Harlan Coben
Image: found at art heals wounds
Inky: Mine loves to play hide and seek. He’s elusive when I want to work, but when I begin to get interested in something else he is the most annoying, bratty, impossible man to ignore.
Doing? nursing a Irish Coffee, heavy on the Irish. Stereo is going full blast, throbbing ‘Despacito‘ while I ignore my muse’s frustrated whines. It’s Friday folks. The weekend has started, finally.
3 AM is the hour of writers, painters, poets, over thinkers, silent seekers and creative people. We know who you are, we can see your light on.
Quote: fb/the idealist
Inky: So that brings to mind a couple of questions for the idealist.
Like, if ‘We’ aren’t writers, painters, poets, over thinkers, silent seekers, and creative people. Just who is standing outside my office at 3 am in the morning watching the light through my window?
Secondly and a bit more importantly, why? I know why I’m awake, this dang manuscript is demanding. But ‘We,’ it’s like 3 A.M., mattresses, fluffy pillows, and other more pleasurable pursuits await.
So okay― there you are in your room with the shade down and the door shut and the plug pulled out of the base of the telephone. You’ve blown up your TV and committed yourself to a thousand words a day, come hell or high water.
Now comes the big question: What are you going to write about?
The equally big answer: Anything you damn well want.
Advice: Stephen King, Writing: a Memoir of the Craft
Image: found at pixels
Doing: wondering how anyone knew the plug on the phone is pulled, the shades are down, and the door shut? Starts searching the room for hidden cameras…..
Mood: Mellow. A glass of wine on the nearby table, the house is really quiet, in my fave soft jeans, and an oversize tshirt, curled up in a comfy chair re-reading MC Beaton. I really love the hot mess that is Agatha Raisin.
I am unlike a mortal lass
From dreams of longing I have passed
I came upon your lonely cries
Revealed beauty to your eyes
So shun the world that you have known
And spend your nights within my own.
I shall be thy lover…
Muse’s Song: Heather Alexander
Drawing: Rod Luff
Doing: cooking eggs and bacon, want some?
Mood: Wishful. Glad to be up and about. Wishing I could don my jeans, and tshirt, instead putting out my usual nine to five garb. Wishing I could go out on the boat, but knowing a desk is waiting for me. Yup, wishful….
But a smell shivered him awake.
It was a scent as old as the world. It was a hundred aromas of a thousand places. It was the tang of pine needles. It was the musk of sex. It was the muscular rot of mushrooms. It was the spice of oak. Meaty and redolent of soil and bark and herb. It was bats and husks and burrows and moss. It was solid and alive – so alive! And it was close.
The vapors invaded Nicholas’ nostrils and his hair rose to their roots. His eyes were as heavy as manhole covers, but he opened them. Through the dying calm inside him snaked a tremble of fear.
The trees themselves seemed tense, waiting. The moonlight was a hard shell, sharp, ready to be struck and to ring like steel.
A shadow moved.
It poured like oil from between the tall trees and flowed across dark sandy dirt, lengthening into the middle of the ring. Trees seem to bend toward it, spellbound. A long, long shadow…
Excerpt: The Dead Path, Stephen M Irwin
Inky: ahhh, a Belgium Chocolate standard of a description. Loved it.
She’s reworking a chapter.
Image: found at gify
Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it.
Out of the box thinker: Terry Pratchett, Reaper Man
Photo: Leszek Bujnowski