I must have been living deep under a rock to have never heard this expression, but there's a reason why people say it. I think it captures the current state of my almost dead muse as I have pushed through the exhausting task of an intensive accounting class. Nothing shrinks that poor muse into a shriveled unhappy raisin as the close and intimate interaction between me and a master budget sheet. Even trying to look at it as a creative Sudoku puzzle didn't help me finally admit that perhaps numbers and I were not the friends we used to be.
I've not edited hardly at all this week, just trying to pass this class. I miss my characters!
Mercifully, accounting finally is over. In the last two days, I read one of the current Cinderella spins making the rounds these days. Some of it I really loved, and other parts I didn't enjoy nearly as much.
What I was struck by most was my inability to just enjoy a novel because I didn't have to be me for a little bit and I could step into the shoes of someone else who had never even heard of accounting. Oh, to be her.
Well not really.
If her life was cake, then I would probably not have much interest in it, so hurrah for her misery!
The most frustrating thing about my relaxing reading is that I can't seem to just enjoy a book without my mind catching on details that don't quite make sense. I am finding myself unable to just let them float out of my mind unnoticed like they once used to. I notice when a character is acting slightly out-of-character, and I'm constantly thinking to myself, why does this not work for me, and did I do that in my book? Improving my craft is important, but I miss the joy of reading something without those annoying thoughts.
Whatever I didn't like about the book, it was good enough to make my muse full and happy. I don't feel the stress I did, and now I can get back to work. Reading, for me, is my muse's Thanksgiving dinner, and she is sitting fat and happy now.
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