It's been wery, wery qwiet over at Casa Staring this week with both Canada Day and Independence Day closing offices and allowing those enslaved by day jobs to run freely into the streets after applying sunscreen.

And this is normally a time when I welcome the calm, laissez-faire attitude that arrives with the warm weather. Only this week, my muse was stomping her little feet and demanding that I write something. Right now.

Couldn't she see that I was taking a much-needed break after completing my last manuscript?

"So what?" she said, adding another stomp for emphasis. "You're a writer. I'm just asking you to do what you're supposed to be doing anyway."

"But I'm tired." I whined from my shaded spot on the hammock. "I need to refill the well before I can proceed."

"You've been eating for hours," she snorted. "Aren't you feeling full enough yet?"

I dropped the bag of low-fat, high fibre vegetable chips (yeah, right) and wiped my hands off on my paint-stained yoga pants.

"I'm referring to my creative well. Time needs to pass so that it can fill up with ideas."

My muse arched a brow. "What if I push something into it? Would that fill it?"

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and I jumped off the hammock in one ab-busting move. Clutching my side, I raced to the end of the driveway where there's a deep hole, normally covered by a cap. It leads to the water pipes...and something much, much more dangerous: my idea well.

I peered down into the hole, expecting the worst.

Two characters from my next novel looked up at me. Penny, a 14-year-old girl, was clutching a pogo stick and box of donuts. Brenda, a slender brunette, was holding my cat, Zaphod. He meowed and reached a paw up in my direction. I tried to extend my arms to them but they were too far down. My knees ground into the pavement.

Turning to face my muse, I gave her a look that would melt a CD case. "How could you?"

"Guess you'll have to write them out of it," she said before disappearing behind the shed. "Good luck!"

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