Well, who wants it to rain men when you have the perfect man, yes I know that's a mythical beast, but he's close enough for jazz. Besides, all those hulking great males falling out of the sky, there's bound to be a fatality.
I have often wondered about the writer's block, that is the bane of many fellow writers, and wondered why I don't get it. Completely the opposite in fact, hell, even writing a simple email can turn into a short story. I have what can be loosely described as, writer's keyboard runs. There is so much in my head that wants to come out; I can hardly keep up with it.
Many authors' talk about their Muse, and in particular Stephen King talks about it running over, taking a bite and then running away, well mine takes a ruddy great bite out of my butt, and hangs on. Take for instance my book about Lottie, The Keeper of the Enchanted Pool. I sat down in the motel on Prince Edward Island, and wrote solidly for almost a week and ended up with over sixteen thousand words. All the time my muse had his whip out. Even on the plane coming back home it wouldn't shut up.
I am not complaining, even though it may sound like I am, I hate to think how I'd feel or what I'd do if my ideas suddenly dried up and the words wouldn't come. Until that time, if it comes, I have so many ideas for other books, scribbled in notebooks, and others clamouring in my head to get out. Even my dreams are full of ideas.
So I guess it's back to the men analogy... So many ideas, so little time.