Musing About Muses

There are as many ways to write as there are writers. It's different for each and every one of them. Some can do it while watching TV, some need music in order to function. Many simply write and correct errors afterwards, I look up every fifth word in the dictionary. (In German, too.) There is no one recipe that works for all. Yes, writing is a craft, but it's difficult to break down when one writer is a hyperactive writing machine with eight arms and the next is a hallucinating cerebrum with two crippled hands it uses to put down ten well-considered words an hour.

Schreiben ist Kampf!

My writing needs peace and quiet. My writing also needs outside inspiration. It's difficult to find a balance that doesn't render me a complete ditz. I can wander the streets plotting and see nothing of the world around me. I can also sit at the keyboard and focus on anything but writing. I need world and asceticism in equal parts.

So I end up rigidly planning my day with lots of home-alone-time and write about adventures and friendships on which I miss out in real life. I'm terrible at staying in touch with people. I have bloody universes in my head. But these universes grow thin-skinned as teenagers when there is no input.
There was this one moment, this afternoon at the beach underneath a grey sky. After cycling through a surreal landscape, cocoa and the North Sea still cold with Whitsun. Everything changed its meaning on that day. From one second to the next, everything turned prop and setting.
"I think, I'll write a book," I said.
I haven't stopped writing since.

But where is this kind of inspiration supposed to come from when you need every precious second for writing?

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