Muse? Yeah, turn up when YOU feel like it, why don’t you?

Finally got to bed at 5.00am this morning. No wild parties, (ha!), festive frolics or any such-like seasonal joys – just sitting on my arse, scribbling, tapping keyboard, in other words – WRITING!

Well, I’m a writer, let’s face it,  don’t do much else of a constructive nature, what’s wrong with that? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that – note to self, why are you having conversations while alone, answering your own questions, get a grip, man – it’s all a matter of practicality. For months now, I’ve been faffing about, drifting along, going with the flow. It’s an easy life, no pressure, and suits my nature perfectly.

Then what happens, two days before Christmas if you please? The long-departed muse pops back again and boots me, figuratively, in the nuts. Not the Christmas nuts either.

3.00 am. Like any other sensible person, fast asleep, perhaps dreaming that my precious Liverpool football club has reinstated its soulmate, Rafa Benitez, to his rightful place at the helm, when the call comes. Wide awake, ideas flooding around what passes for my brain, my head jam- packed with people who don’t exist all busily rampaging around my skull.

I sit up, quietly in the interests of self-preservation, then slip out of a warm, cozy bed and slip, wraith-like, downstairs. It’s cold, dark, and only a deranged person would be here, but there I am. I put on a light, sit down, reach for a pen and notebook. My God, I’m writing again.

3,000 words later I take a break. The love of my life appears, coffee cup in hand. She hadn’t even noticed my absence!!!

‘What are you doing?’

‘Just a bit of writing,’ I say, casually waving at the page of indecipherable scrawl on my lap.

‘About bloody time.’

Well, yes, I can relate to that.

I write for most of the day, toddle off to bed at 11.30pm, but twenty minutes later I’m back downstairs again.

In my chair.

Scribbling.

For another five hours.

It’s in my head. Must come out. I’m an all-or-nothing writer. Not one of those organised people who sit themselves down at a civilised hour and write. Probably without the crossings-out, snorts of derision, or nervous tics that are part and parcel of my ‘system.’ If it’s not in there, it won’t come out.

The trouble is, it’s Christmas, other demands on my time. Why now, of all times? Go AWOL for months then wait for the most inconvenient time possible to come charging back, brooking no argument, like an attention seeking toddler.

Oh well, so long as you’re here, might as well make use of you. I’m writing. Again. Any doubts on my part, along the well-trodden path of ‘what’s the point of writing if nobody wants to read your tedious drivel?’ – and, yes, been there many times – were knocked back by an email I had last night. From an agent, a good one I’d happily give 50% of all future earnings to secure – although not actually intending to mention this to her – who asked to see my novel 3-4 months ago.

She’d rang me at home, enthused about my writing, made all the right noises, all good stuff. At the end, she rejected me.

Nicely, but still rejected me.

A rejection accompanied by, ‘I know you can write. Your book is commercial. Any other year, any other financial climate, I’d beg to take you, confident I could place your book.’ So, close, but no cigar.

Then, last night, she’s back in touch. Can I send the full manuscript, printed copy, so she can ‘take another look’ – well, that’s a no-brainer. ’Let me have a good look at this and then send me your other books, (two of them) as well’.

Better and better.

The best bit of all came right at the end of her message. ‘What about the next project? Are you working on anything at the moment?’

Am I? You’d better believe it! Thanks, muse, welcome back. Never mind the timing, you’re back now. Just when I need you most.