Okay. It’s midnight-thirty, and I’m just sitting down to blog. Earlier tonight I taught a dance lesson to a couple who is about to be married. We’re really getting down to the nut-cutting. Three more lessons, and then it’s their big day. Then they perform their routine. Honestly, it’s getting better the closer and closer we get to the deadline. Not because, as you might think, they’ve been practicing more, although they have been. (Practice, what a novel concept.) Rather, their routine is getting better because of that magical force called pressure (pressure–pushing down on me), because of that thing that says, This has got to happen. This has simply got to happen.

Several times in the last few weeks I’ve mentioned the pressure I’m under, specifically the pressure to create (out of thin air) a 1,500-word short story for my friend Marla’s writing class that began four weeks ago and ends tomorrow. Ugh. I started my short story easily enough, with three hundred words, but the last time I worked on it, a week ago today (the night before our last class), I was only able to add a hundred more. Consequently, I’ve felt like a failure. Sure, a hundred words is a hundred words, but all week I’ve been at a loss because I haven’t known where to go next. Not that I’ve sat down, even once, to try to figure things out. I’ve been too busy–reading books, mowing my parents’ lawn, fighting a sinus infection.

Today I started dog sitting for a friend, and this afternoon when I ate lunch (Mexican food) in their kitchen, their dog lay on the floor and stared at me the whole time. Like, Hey, Amigo, are you gonna share that or what? This went on until my last bite (because I don’t share and–besides–had just given him a T-R-E-A-T.) Anyway, this is sometimes what trying to write can feel like, like you’re a dog lying on a kitchen floor waiting for some middle-aged prick to pass you a piece of his chicken taco. You bang your head against the wall and wait for The Muse to show up and say something–ANYTHING!– but then, as if it were a Tinder date, it stands you up instead.

Just like a man. The Muse is probably a man.

As of last night and even as early as this morning, I was convinced I simply wasn’t going to get my short story finished in time for class. Even if I do find the time to write, I doubt I’ll be able to get very far, I thought. Optimistic, I know, but I’ve done this fiction writing thing before, and it requires time.

So get this shit. (And pay close attention because I’m only going to say this once.) I was wrong. (I’ll explain.) Because of my sinus infection, I cleared my schedule this afternoon to rest. But then I perked up a little and decided to TRY working on my short story. I’ve got four hours, I thought. A lot can happen in four hours. And, y’all, a lot did. I wrote 850 words. That’s 1,250 words total. And whereas I didn’t FINISH the story, I’m okay with that because I realized it’s not meant to be a short story–it’s meant to be something longer. A novel, perhaps. So what I have now is a solid introduction, maybe a first chapter. Regardless, I have 1,250 words (that I absolutely adore) that I didn’t have a few weeks ago. And here’s the best part–I can’t wait to see what happens next.

This if the FUN side of writing. For weeks you beat yourself up and bang your head against the wall. You agonize over what’s going to happen. You do nothing and get nowhere. The pressure builds. Then, the day before your deadline, you finally sit down in front of the keyboard. You think, This has got to happen. This has simply got to happen. And just like that, it does. When it’s over, you’re just as amazed as anyone else is. Tonight while editing my story, I noticed subtle connections I didn’t intend. Magical, I thought. This is what makes me believe I’m not working alone here. This is what makes me believe The Muse does exist and–because it’s willing to show up to our creative play dates but simply takes its sweet time getting ready–must be a woman.