I have a story itch. I know it’s there, teasing me just beyond my reach. It smells like fantasy. I would love to write some more fantasy. It’s *right there*, just beyond my sight. I can see it hovering there, and I keep straining to make out its shape. It’s annoying. It flickers, singing a sweet shiny melody, but I don’t even know what it IS so I can’t ignore my other to-dos to satisfy it.
I tried doodling on scrap paper the other day to see if my subconscious knew what my wicked muse was trying to tell me. But you know how he is. He just winks and smirks with a little swish of his memsha and goes sneaking off into the Shadows.
I scanned my research shelf to see if any lightbulbs went off. Was he wanting me to do a little research? Maya? Nope. The Mound Builders? Nope. China? Japan? Celts? Nadda.
Egypt? Greek? Fairytales? Regency? Victorian England? American Civil War?!?
I’m getting desperate here.
The smug bastard. I think this calls for a new moleskin notebook and the magic purple pen.