On Writing, Flow, Zen, Nirvana, Blood

TheGlitterGlobe/S.R. Karfelt 

This is the flow. Zen. Nirvana.

It’s had at a tray table in my room.

I feel sorry for people who don’t have this. People who don’t know all it takes is a pencil and paper. And the muse. She has the best ideas.

I didn’t realize then that she has two faces. One is worse than a resting bitch face, straight from the depths of hell.

It’s my fault.

I treated her like cake.

Wow. This is sooo good! Bet more is better.

Delicious story. Yes, please, I’ll have some more.

Score more.

Bigger is better.

If I’m really going to do this I need classes, conferences, workshops, an agent, a publisher, lots and lots of books about writing, writer friends, writer mentors.

An office.

Plenty of stationery.

More books.

A couple laptops.

A desk top computer too.

A great big desk.

An office chair.

That one hurts. Let’s try another.

How about a yoga ball?

A kneeling chair.

A standing desk.

The mat to go under it.

Bigger monitors.

Prescription computer glasses designed for distance to the computer when writing.

Two pair.

One for sitting. One for standing.

Software.

MSWord sucks ass.

Or my computer skills do.

Let’s buy the manual and learn how to paginate that MOFO.

Wait—we need the manuals for MSWord 07 and 10—the laptops have an old version.

Flash drives.

An external hard drive.

A computer bag with wheels to take to conferences.

Oh, Amazon! You excite me.

Editors.

Cover artists.

Interior designers.

Another editor.

Conference. Conference. Conference.

Now I’m watching football at the house of a famous horror novelist.

He’s sitting in the armchair with a cat on his legs.

It’s name is Tinkerbell.

I’m having trouble with that.

It’s my anniversary and I didn’t call my husband, because the author’s wife has invited me to stay here tonight.

I think about how I’ll never sleep here.

About my toothbrush.

My husband.

I go back to the hotel and fall asleep without calling him.

I decide to join writer associations.

SFWA. NANOWRIMO. ACFW. RWA. Ragged Blue Monkeys. Obey the Muse. Read Write Muse.

It makes no sense.

A mishmash of conflicting direction.

But I don’t want to miss anything.

They all want something.

Proof I’ve sold enough books.

My pledge to read and judge six new erotica books.

My attention.

My soul. For reals.

I drop that group.

I’m a bad Christian anyway.

Too much science.

But I love you guys.

Really.

Paperwork waits impatiently.

Eternally.

Business cards.

Book marks.

Release parties.

Giveaways.

Blogs.

Frequent Flyer numbers.

Airline credit cards.

Marriot rewards.

Hilton Honors Program.

Starwood Preferred Guest.

Write. Write. Write.

The muse is wearing stiletto thigh high boots and carries a whip made of anchor chain.

She hides behind the office door and jumps me when I walk inside.

I need to get sales up.

More social media.

No. Less.

A presence in bookstores.

Signings.

You need three books out.

I meant four.

Six.

Eight.

Ten.

Contests.

Meaningless awards.

Impossible awards.

Reviews.

More reviews.

Who do you have to do to get reviews?

Hysterical laughter with other writers late into the night.

A patient husband.

Children who do not want to hear about my GD effing books again.

A mother-in-law with dementia.

“You write books? Real ones? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

The muse is hanging onto my ankles, pulling my pants down, begging.

The ideas never stop.

The fingers are mortal.

Authors say I’m one of the lucky ones because the ideas never stop.

Enjoy your obscurity they say.

More attention is more pressure they say.

I hear.

And I’m thinking about…

Flow. Zen. Nirvana.

Time spent in worlds of words.

Dancing with the page.

Versus.

Monetary justification for years of work.

And the pursuit of validation.

Black holes and glittery rabbit trails.

Maybe writers are crazy for obeying the muse. 

But she has cake.

For blood.