The Muse Outside

I spend a lot of time with my back to the computer and its blank screen, staring out my office window. I'm convinced that sitting atop one of the trees in the distance is the becloaked Muse that Zeus assigned to torment me. She is always outside, always in profile, always refusing my invitations. When it's windy outside, she appears be be rocking back and forth, doubled over in laughter. 

So... do you think it's time for me to see someone? A trained specialist? Someone who has dealt with people who see animal shapes and perhaps Abe Lincoln and his stovepipe hat in cloud formations?

Fear and/of Writing

This article in the New York Times on Writing and Fear hit a nerve. Don't write what you know, the author advises, write what you fear.

It got me to thinking: What if the things you fear are wrapped up in the writing process itself? To wit:

Blank pages. First drafts. Scenes that plop themselves on the page like a flatulent uncle at a family gathering. (Which reminds me: cliches.) And the first five pages. And those few final sentences before The End. The submission. The silence.The calendar. The odds. The next one.

What keeps your writerly mind cowering beneath the sheets?