Sometimes when I write everything lives in cluttered piles around me: the dishes, the laundry, the papers upon papers on my desk/dining table–which have magical replicating powers allowing them to continuously overflow even when pushed into semi-organised piles. This chaos leads to stress, which leads to lack of writing, which leads to cleaning, which hopefully, will lead back to writing.
I need to remind myself to stop to breathe, because as writers we get consumed by the world we have created and the characters that give life to that world, and for the longest time I can’t see the clutter growing, and when I stop for a second and notice the mounds, it can weigh me down. And as much as I want to continue to write and ignore the growing piles, I know that this is real life interjecting to let me know that I need to function in both spaces, the writing world and the real world, and in order to do that the things in the real world need to get sorted before the muse in the writing world will listen to my ramblings, and will organise said ramblings into a string of literary genius (or at least words that make sense).
So muse, I’ll be back, but right now I have some cleaning to do. Need to unclutter so that the writing can come freely and totally unobstructed.