I've had a couple of serious writing days where the word count on my novel jumped up by 4000. It's a relief to me as the muse has been reticent of late. On the 20th was my late dad's birthday and I played the writer's life, sitting in a cafe on the Parade with my brand new notebook, a gift from my daughter. The weird thing is, when I opened it, I also opened my mind to the possibility of allowing my father to 'have a chat' with me, just as I would with a character in my novel. And then my right brain took over and I wrote furiously for pages. The words came fluently and without any obvious thinking on my part. It was strange and I thought perhaps my dad is my muse.