The Creeping Edge of a Writer's Insanity

It would have been best if the characters now prowling impatiently in my head had lain dormant for four more months.
School has become nothing more than a nuisance.
There is research to do, both to be read and to be seen first hand.
There are books to be read.
There is writing to be done.
Unfortunately there are also masses upon masses of homework to be completed.
To be responsible and not let down the people who are counting on me for various things I must ignore the desperation to bury myself in my cave and tend to my muse.
If you are a spiritual person, you could compare my quenching of my muse to the quenching of the Holy Spirit. You know when the Spirit is speaking to you and you have to shut a certain part of yourself down to choose against Him. It's a lot like that, only not holy and not nearly as important.
Even now, I shouldn't be blogging but reading about Dan Rather's lawsuit.
This is what drove me to insanity at Truman.
There was no time to read, no time to write, no lazy hours spent in the concentration that others would mistake for idle daydreaming.
Ah well, off to the practical world where the figments of my imagination have no voice.

The Voices of the Voices in My Head

It's funny to me, but this is how I have always worked, even when I was in middle school and working on a novel.
While writing, I have to listen to a certain song or songs and nothing else. Working while listening to a radio station doesn't go over well. And it's always a certain song that will bring that particular story to life.
Oddly enough, my antique characters, as I like to call them, prefer smooth jazz...Norah Jones, Michael Buble. And my current characters prefer classical (Debussey, Beethoven). It just seems backward to me, but they won't work for me if I try to switch their playlists. Very funny.
It's like the playlist you take to the gym with you. If those songs come on while you're out shopping, or anywhere really, you'll feel an impulse to start jogging. It's the same when I pop in Norah Jones, suddenly Katherine starts squirming around in my thoughts, wanting to tell me some more of her tale.
Being a writer makes one a bit of an odd duck. Or is it rather, that being a writer comes as a result of being an odd duck?

Mathematical Setback

Blerg!

I had been following the Word document=>novel page conversion mentioned by an author on her page and it was wrong.

So instead of having 62 pages, I have 32.

Does it matter? Am I going by pages or story? Well story, yes. But I felt so triumphant to have crossed that 50 page point and it was a false victory.

Tragic.

Well, back to work. I obviously have much more to do.

Actually reading something would probably be a better remedy for the time being.

Gotta shake it off, ya know.

Blast it all.