And now I think I’m weird. Ok, so both of us are weird.
Last night, I was ever so rudely awakened by my muse, who apparently thought it was necessary to impart life-altering information at the ungodly hour of 2:00 a.m. My muse does not know me very well, because if he (or she) knew me AT ALL, then he would let me sleep, kindly write his fine ideas on a post-it note, and allow me to peruse them at my leisure at a decent hour.
And, as it turns out, the idea that I was given has absolutely nothing to do with what I am currently writing, what I have lined up to write, or what I have written and need to revise. Maybe Mr. Muse got the wrong address?
The idea was ridiculous. So ridiculous in fact that I had to huddle over my coffee this morning and force my mind to recollect the idea that was imparted to me as I sort-of-slept. Was I even remembering it correctly? Could the idea even work? I had never even considered anything like it before, but maybe that’s the point.
What kind of writer would undertake such a ludicrous storyline? I started to scribble and make weird notes. It would be a weird story, but maybe a bit poignant. Unrealistic, but ever-so-slightly close to home. It just might work.
Damned muse. Now I have this next-to-impossible idea-slash-project sitting on the runway, just waiting for takeoff.
My muse is definitely weird. And I’m weird for even considering his idea. Well, crap.