I usually work well with a deadline. I may push that line, bending it as far as I can, but I rarely break it.
That is, until it’s a self-imposed deadline. If I commit myself to something like this month’s NaBloPoMo schedule, or when I participated in past year’s Novel Writing Month – with it’s daily word count targets – my fingers and brain rebel.
When there is no risk of failure – read: missed deadlines – the words and ideas come at will. Sometimes they won’t stop. I’ve awakened from a rare, deep sleep and had to write down a dream or story idea before I could even attempt to go back to bed. Lately, dreams and ideas are as elusive as sleep.
When I tell myself I have to do something on cue, the muses give me the silent treatment. Come December 1, half a dozen plot lines will have a party in my head. What’s there now? Crickets, annoyingly quiet crickets.