Inspiration plays games with me sometimes. She does not understand that I need her, that when she is off on vacation, I am quite lonely.
Truth is, I’m greedy. Planning a novel is way easier than writing one so I devote considerable time to the easier task. This is why I have a complaint against Inspiration. She gives too little and expects me to trust her and walk around the plot of my novel without knowing where I am going. Of course, she drops surprises on me every so often. She blows the mist apart and points at links between characters that I had not seen before. She calls up the perfect memory to bridge the gap in this or that chapter. She is very good at her work. This is unquestionable. But she is unreliable. She has no idea of the urgency of time. For her a decade on the same story is nothing. Everything is about maturity. She definitely takes pleasure at mixing things up, fermenting them and serving wine.
What I am to do about her? It seems I must wait. Eat what she serve on my plate and hope that she will arrive when my next meal is due. Or should I chase after her and caress my plot points out of her? If I espouse the virtue of patience and never ask her, let her be, will she ever answer? Will she know that a question is in need of answer? So I ask and wait, and ask and wait, hammering on the same nail again and again until she is teeming with anger and she answers.