The Nadir

The flow of my writing is slowing. My creative energies ebb. I languish, wilting like some pale, plump flower on the vine.  My creative cycle approaches its nadir. I do not want to make anything. The thought of putting fingers to keys is just unappealing. I want to put aside the computer, bury my head beneath the bedclothes and come out when the world recognizes my innate genius and decides to give me a billion dollars just for breathing.

Somehow, though, I doubt that will happen.

I have had this recurring, odd thought. A seed of an idea for a possible story. It isn't growing yet, it isn't planted. The idea sits in the dark and the cold, germinating, drawing energy to itself from Other Projects. The greedy bugger.

This idea lurks in the back of my brain. Like some dread sea monster, it rears its head from the dark depths every once in a while, looks around and then vanishes again into the deep.

I do not need another idea.

I really don't.

Not now, not when just sitting here and writing this takes effort.

But I know that I will write this idea down some time. A sketch, a scene, a conversation set in this odd new world. It is inevitable. I am doomed even as I try to deny it. Such is the burden that we have to bear. Our muse rides us like Proteus, that Old Man of the Sea, driving us hither and yon with not-so-gentle strikes of her whip.

I will write it down. I will submit to the Muse's not-so-tender prodding.

Later, when the wheel turns, when I can roust enthusiasm for this idea and the plummet into the depths turns to flight toward the zenith.