Only obituaries come to mind

Hoping to rekindle my muse I’m buried in deep wilderness. My only companions: loons, chippies, and coons. Occasionally a deer peeks in, or a humminbird hits own image in the window. Ideal conditions for writing, on the surface that is, because… weather is such that only obituaries come to mind. Wind, rain and darkness. Cold. With the fireplace on, dog at my feet, I read. I devour novels. Passionate reading by the fire. Then, hot as a brick, I find that only a quick dive in the lake cools my head. Ouch! Trembling I rush back inside, to the red hot pulsating heart. All’s good again, except… writing. My Muse’s name: Dolour. Dolorosa, I call her in hope she’ll show a kinder face.

Fat luck! Bad weather kills my creativity. There are writers who work in any and all conditions. They produce regardless of outside stimuli. No this one. I do not make notes, do not collect material, and do not plan ahead. How can I? My characters are alive, at least in my head. They live day-to-day lives, as do I. How can I guess what will happen tomorrow? I do not. Certain characteristics, clues left by my heroes’ actions lead me to the next scene. In the past few weeks my characters are under the weather, as I am. They coast, barely able to keep their eyes open, sleepy, lazy, tired of all I put them through and not inspired to go on. They lie on the couch and read books. Good pastime, but… not a good subject for a book…