So this is it. My muse is gasping in the corner, wheezeing, possibly expelling little chunks of muse-innards. She/he/it isn't being very inspiring/muse-like at the moment.
I haven't finished a piece of writing in the month of July. Not even one wee flash piece.
Oh, I could blame my lack of "production" on many things--my family responsibilities, my editing responsibilities for my buddies at Strange (the Tainted TOC is forthcoming, by the way), the fact that the temperature hit a nasty 96 Fahrenheit today (plus some unfortunate humidity)...
Any excuse would be a lie. I think I've abused my muse to within nanomilimeters of his/her/its life. Really, I've been on some kind of insane writing blitz for the last nine months or so, and now that I've slowed down, I don't really want to start again.
Call it an existential crisis. I've enjoyed sorting through the pile for Tainted; I'm excited about that project. I've received a few acceptances, so it isn't the reject-o-rama black hole that has me in its clammy grip.
I just need to step back...breathe...see if the muse is going to make it. Whew.