I think I'm beginning to get my muse back.
I mean, I don't know exactly what my muse is. It's not any particular person or place or thing, though there certainly are people, places, and things that I find inspiring. My muse just seems to be something a little more intangible than all that. I don't know. Could be a feeling. Could be an allergy. Could be a few too many late nights spent reading until either my eyes give out or my current reading material runs out of pages. All of these are possible. I don't need to pinpoint my muse, so long as I take advantage of it when it comes bustling into my life without warning.
I'm not sure, by the way, if this muse of mine does the whole blogging thing. But should I be able to press it toward prolificness (which, despite what my spellcheck is telling me, is actually a word) in the online arena, I will be sure to focus that energy on this ol' blog of mine. I have all but retired most of my others.
On the subject of reading into the wee hours of the night (if by, "on the subject of," I mean, "in reference to a passing comment I made in my first paragraph), I attempted to read a few pages of Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book the other nite, and instead ended up reading about 200 of them, effectively finishing the book I'd intended to make last for a week or two. It was magnificent. I laughed out loud, I sobbed into my pillow, I wrote a review on Facebook and promptly Twittered it (Really, Firefox? You recognize "Twittered" but not "prolificness?") to share my amazement. Needless to say, I highly recommend this book. I will not deny that I am biased by my complete addiction to all things Neil Gaiman, but I really do think that this goes beyond the simple bounds of fangirling (also in the Firefox dictionary). It's a touching story that is, at all times, bittersweet. I just might read it again in the near future. However, at the moment, Kurt Vonnegut's Timequake is beckoning me from the pile of clutter next to my bed. It would be rude of me not to respond to its call.