The muses tend to pick the most inopportune moments to strike -- but it isn't a strike, is it? It's more of a tap, a light brush that you think little of at the time (in truth, sometimes you don't notice it at all) but festers into an itch that can't be cured under your idle fingernails -- no, it needs release beyond flesh, beyond body.
It is hard to write when I am tired, but sometimes it is harder NOT to write. It is unbearable to attempt to satiate this reoccurring restlessness with something Useful for the Real World, something Productive for the rest of Society. I remember the heartache I felt as a little girl when I learned that doctors are useful and poets are not. I decided I would be a dentist that writes. But I came to this decision before discovering that scientists and authors cultivate their professions very differently. My anatomy notes were littered with lyrics and my diary was buried under a stack of textbooks. So I changed my mind and chose pretty words over medical terminology, meter over metric. I gave in and continue to give in to my muse. I took poetry instead of physiology.
And now here I am, lying awake at 3 in the morning, trying to come up with the right words to scratch an itch.
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