Before the flood

      I have that restless writing feeling again. That itch in the back of my mind that complains if I do anything else. But when I sit down to write, the words don't flow. Yet. They're there. My subconscious has been busy. I see signs of it everywhere. Memories disturbed, imaginings misplaced, clutter here and there, scraps of dialogue fluttering to the floor. I have hints of what it's up to, but no clear signs. I'm impatient, but I've been through this process before. Soon it will let me know. It will spring something full-blown on me. All I have to do is be ready. And I think I am.
      Part of the reason I've been floundering is all this drama around me. I require a certain amount of boredom to write, not too much as that depresses me, but just enough that my muse decides to get off her lazy hiney and stir things up. My muse is a troublemaker; never let her fool you. Some people's muses are genteel creatures who sip their Earl Gray with white gloved pinkie in the air. Mine likes to fling mud into those muses' faces as she rumbles through on a Harley, kicking over the table with a black leather booted heel.
      She may have tats. I'm not sure. I try to not ask. I'm just waiting impatiently for her to blow up the dam and let the word flood begin.