It's funny how the warmer weather can have such a profound impact on one's own creativity.
Usually in the fall and winter, my muse, as it applies to my writing, has a tendency to go wandering off to the land that time has forgotten about. Where the air is warm, the breeze is cool and gentle, and life is exceptionally easy and sleazy. Thus, my writing screeches to a halt. Dried up. Dried out. Barren as a blade of grass in the Mojave desert.
But...when the warmer weather hit, that's when things start to heat up.
My muse comes in from the cold, shakes off the aftereffects of sun, wind spray, more sun, more wind, sand, etc. etc. etc. etc.
Muse steps over and uncorks a high hard one that sends good old G.B. flying out of the chair and face first to the ground. She looks over and after being satisfied with a job well done, sits down in front of the computer and starts to type.
Coming back from the cold, eh?! Where the hell do you get off telling these good people that I'm a slacker?! I'll have you know that I ain't no slacker! Contrary to popular opinion, while you was busy pretending to be the man you ain't, I was busy conjuring up new ideas and fresh approaches to old ideas.
But did you pay attention to me? Hell no! You were busy being the martyr and playing that bullshit "woe is me" persona that fools everyone but me.
During the rant G.B. starts showing signs of life. He grabs hold of the chair and slowly pulls himself up. Muse, suddenly aware of her chair being moved, looks to her left and spies G.B. doing the moving. Narrowing her eyes until they were mere slits, she delivers a hard elbow to his jaw, dislodging him from the chair and knocking him out cold.
Again satisfied at job well done, she turns her attention back to the computer.
Sorry for the interruption, but the f.b.i. guy was trying to butt in again. Now where was I? Oh yeah. I was busy working my tight little ass off coming up with a slew of fresh new ideas that would knock your socks off. But was he paying attention to me and my ideas? Of course not. He would listen to my ideas, then say, "yeah, sure, okay that'll work, thanks." before dismissing me with a wave of his slimy little hand.
This went on for quite a while and each time that he would do it, I would get wetter than a mad hen. Until finally he went to the well one to many times and..."
"No I didn't, sweet thang," said G.B., who had finally regained consciousness.
Muse gets up and within the span of thirty seconds was having another knockdown drag out battle with G.B. Punches were thrown, screams could be heard, clothing was torn and rip, then suddenly all becomes very quiet.
Passionately quiet as one could just vaguely hear a few choice words and phrase drifting out from outside the computer desk.
Many minutes later, Muse returned and took a seat in front of the computer. Looking like something the cat dragged in after a passionate night and day of lovemaking, she sighed deeply and lovingly, before viciously attacking the keyboard.
So after he went to the well one too many times, words and passionate...ummm...hostilities were exchanged. Eventually we came to a mutual understanding about what my future will be in this partnership.
Ummm....well...I leave you with this thought. My main man G.B. has once again found that his creative juices are just bursting at the seams, and he would like to thank yours truly for helping him find the spigot to unleash those juices.
'Cause after all, a muse like myself knows all the moves and has all the weapons at her disposal, in order to make her writer shine like polished gold.