Midnight Hours

I'm possessed. There. I've said it. Out loud. In front of witnesses.

Possessed. Do you hear me?

Since I figured my way into telling the story, I can't get away. I fear I may be possessed, driven by the whip-weilding muse, until the final page is written. No complaints here. I'm loving the way this is going but I'm not getting much sleep.

Sleep can wait, can't it? I mean, I'm half done with the book. I'd been nearly finished with the "original"--more than once, actually, but that damn possessive muse... Forced me to delete big chunks, to move back to a salvageable point and rewrite, using the new slant.

She was right, you know. About the scrapping chunks? Completely on target.

The story is much stronger, now. More interesting, too. I think. I hope.

Oh, what if it's still rubbish?

Y'know, there's always one heckler in the crowd, isn't there? Escort that sucker right out the door! Get outta here, self-doubt! Hit the road!

There. Now back to life in the possessed lane.

Oh? A hint? Just a wee hint about the muse's takeover? All right, if you insist. I've got two words for you. Parallel stories. That's it; it says everything. Or so I'm told -- by some crazy, drill sargeant muse who refuses to shut up.

Have a nice day. I hear it's Wednesday, but who can ever really tell with those things? In my world it's page 153. :)