Writing to Order is a Perilous Business Because:

  • the muse is a jealous [demotic use of the word properly used to indicate the female of the species Canis lupus familiaris], and there are nine of them.
  • You don’t have a dog, and “the chickens ate my homework” is unlikely to work as an excuse with anyone with enough intelligence to successfully wear pants.
  • You know these things – and I don’t just mean reputations – matter, and there ain’t no prune-equivalent for creative constipation.
  • The pen is only mightier than the sword if the pen is very large and the sword very small, and ‘hoist on your own petard’ may be less of a euphemism than you think.
  • The only thing shared by desperation and inspiration is strictly rationed, and most people aren’t going to get this comment.
  • It’s amazing what the universe has up its sleeve to distract you, not limited to flood, fire, pestilence, sport, housework and all manner of other poems-in-waiting that will come crowding around, aw come on, pick me pickme pickmepickme.
  • You’ll oscillate so wildly between “never satisfied” and “satisfied too easily” that they could fit you with a dynamo and generate enough power to cook a three course meal for six, with soup and amuse-bouche.
  • Sigh …
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