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Not a good day for writing. The deadline being the end of last month means that I can’t afford to give myself the luxury of not working today. I can’t just sit for hours and stare at the screen and get nothing done and say, that’s all right. It’s not all right. But the longer I sit and force myself to work, and get nothing done, the harder it is to get anything done. Writing, unlike some work, is really effected by the mood of the worker. My mood is not good.

I’ve gotten out the fine china tea cups. The hand painted ones with the little mice on them, scenes from the children’s books set in Brambly Hedge by Jill Barklem. There are four or five books with beautiful illustrations. I bought the tea set years ago when the price of it was really more than I could afford, but I’ve loved it since I bought it. With all the dogs I don’t always use it for fear of tripping puppies, but today calls for hardcore cheering up. So, the Brambly Hedge tea cups it is.

I know that some of you reading this expect me to drink out of black china, or a gargoyle mug, but sorry most of my tea cups are either cute, wildlife images, or smart ass comments. I do have a big, black mug with white headstones all over it that I really like, but other than that I don’t have many scary mugs.

I’m too bummed for Christmas music. When I can’t find any music at all that pleases me, it’s not a good sign. I wrote to Ludo the day before, and that worked. Yesterday I wrote to Seether. I tried them again earlier today, but it wasn’t working. It’s as if I have to sneak up on myself to get me to work. Wait, that’s an idea.

Not the sneaking up part, but I think I know where the wheel came off my apple cart. I think I know, maybe how to fix this hole I’ve managed to write myself into. Maybe. I’m off to jump back two chapters and do a rewrite, to see if it fixes the problem. Keep your fingers crossed.

Oh, what’s the idea? We’re too close to the end to tell you without it being a spoiler. Sorry.

Okay it’s about hour or so later. I’d fought all day and had no pages to show for it. In an hour I have seven pages. I had to loose six of the pages I wrote yesterday, and they are gone. The scene just wasn’t working, and shoving against that brick wall wasn’t going to make it become a door. So, I backed up, and rewrote myself a door. I mean that metaphorically, you understand. There are no walls, or doors in this scene. We’re outside in this scene. I lost most of yesterday’s pages, but I got to keep one, and so I’m a page farther along. Also, I’m eager to do the next day’s work. In fact, I may try and do a few more pages while there’s momentum. Maybe, or maybe that would just be asking for trouble. You know, trying to push beyond where your muse has a flashlight, so that you wonder around in the dark without a light, or a path. I feel like I’ve been running too far ahead of my muse this book, so that she keeps having to catch up with me, or shoot up a flare so I can find her. Having found my muse in the maze once more, I’m sticking to her. Handcuffs anyone? Oh, no . . ., she’s offered to hold hands if I need it, but she’s definitely frowning on the handcuffs. In fact, she’s tsking at me, that maybe the idea of force is part of my problem with this book. Every time I try to force myself beyond where my muse is ready to go, we slow, or stop. Maybe it’s a hint I should finally take. I whine at her about my deadline, and she just looks at me, with those knowing eyes. You guys know the look. The look a woman will give you when you love her, and she’s just caught you doing one of those stupid-boy things, but she loves you anyway. My muse loves me, but sometimes I’m a little too guy for my own good. Other times, it’s all that saves me.