My muse wouldn't let me sleep last night.
On Monday, at four in the morning, she woke me to share how she thought the opening of McShane's book three, Homicide by Hurricane should read. I told her that I’d only written the outline for book three, and that I still had to finish the edits on book two, Four Files for A Life in order to upload it to Kindle by Thursday. She didn't care. I, and my need for sleep, fought her for all we were worth. Now, at 6 a.m., I’m typing this tantrum on my laptop rather than writing what she is still demanding I write.
Stupid Muse.
Fine! Fine! I’m writing!
(grumble, grumble, grumble)
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