Steamy windows (All about the writers muse)

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  I was silently musing, as is my bent, when a certain thought kept returning. No matter how many times I dismissed the notion it would not leave me alone; eventually waking me in the early hours with its persistent nagging.

  I guess all writers, at least those of us who are serious about our craft, have such occasions?

  Personally, I find the only way to rid such daemons is to submit to their will, writing about whatever it is which plagues the mind.

  When I say write, I mean exactly and precisely that. I mean scribble the thoughts down in any way, shape, or form possible. Be it in a note book, a journal, incorporate the idea into your current novel, or do as I am now doing, write it as a blog post.

  As one writes the thoughts begin to unravel, they start to form strings of coherent meanings and possibilities. Unlike the tangled mass of haphazard notions previously running amok in the brain.

  As now, many threads appear, each one a possible tale or the premise of another book. This post is but one of those threads, others will follow.

  I already have a new short story to tell from these very words and shall write a draft as soon as I can, as soon as I finish this.

  

  I think of it, each idea, each notion, much like a kettle on the hob. The kettle is full, the gas burning brightly beneath. Slowly, as the water heats it begins to move, agitations growing as the temperature increases, until inevitably, the water comes to a galloping boil.

  This is the moment the lid starts to rattle, the whistle screams, steam escapes to fill the kitchen and condense on the windowpanes causing rivulets of water to run down and form puddles on the sills.

  That is how the muse builds up inside of us, the writers and authors. The note pads and keyboards are our lids and whistles. Our editors and proof-readers the rivulets and window panes.

  It is not until we have wafted away the steam, opened the said windows, letting fresh air circulate, can we finally put everything together and make that nice pot of tea.

  

  Of course, that is all a writer’s metaphorical whimsy. But I guess you get my gist?

  Now I sit at the kitchen table, drinking such tea and reading a book. Possibly your book, the one which you wrote as when your conceptual kettle boiled.

  Now all I need is a sweet biscuit to dunk…but that really is another story altogether!

  Happy daze, Paul.

  Why not read some of my short stories at https://alittlemorefiction.wordpress.com/