Writing is frustrating. Some days my fingers fly around the keyboard like wildfire, unable to keep up with the story unfolding inside my head. Other days, like these past few, every word is like trying to pry gemstones from solid ice. I wonder why my muse picks and chooses to come and go as she pleases? I wonder why the story, after moving so swiftly through my imagination, has chosen to pause itself? Perhaps it is my human limitations that hinder progress?
It seems, occasionally, that when my writing goes into creative hibernation, that my reading becomes voracious; as though it's the one that's been starving and now needs immediate sustenance. It is difficult, however, to find the right foods to feed the need. Not all books are created equal. I often pick up three or four from the library only to return all of them unread but for a few chapters. Why is this? I'm picky. Very, very picky. I hate wasting precious time and energy on a book that I feel will not quench my creative thirst. 
The books I read have to have certain qualities, such as beautiful writing. You know the kind, the prose that flows like verbal silk, words wound together as though angels have inspired them. Second, a lovely cover. Yes, I know, that's a bit shallow, but it's true. I feel that the package should entice me, seducing me to peek between its pages. And lastly, a different story. Something unique, odd even. So often I find the same stories retold, rehashed and milked for every ounce it's worth. Example: Vampires. Need I say more?
So as I wait out yet another writing hiatus, I fill my head with the words and stories of those who inspire me. Perhaps they are my muses, or my own muse has flitted off to inspire another in order to feed my future literary addictions? 
Who knows?