Sometimes writing is really hard work. I don’t mean that in the sense that learning the craft and finding the inspiration is tricky. What I mean is that sometimes writing is like constipation, where I’m painfully squeezing out one word at a time before eventually realising that it’s still all shit. I hate those days.
Then there are days like today, where words flow freely and no challenge seems insurmountable. That radio play scene that was kicking my arse last night? Totally nailed it in 15 minutes on the train this morning.
In no way though would I ever use the term ‘writer’s block’ or apportion guilt to ‘my muse’. The latter has always particularly annoyed me. I know most writers who refer to their muse don’t mean this as a literal spirit of enlightenment, but I’ve never felt the need to anthropomorphise my difficulties as the act of some skittish metaphor who must be appeased by ritual and superstition.