It a glorious moment, eh? When your Muse fills you with the most wondrous internal sparks of creative energy. When It happens you hammer away at it, pouring the words out for hours, nay, for days until you’re nothing but a spent puddle of goo in your chair.
You’re exhausted, emotionally drained, and yet, you slump over with an contented smile on your face.
The pleasure has just been all yours.
This Tango with your Muse has been another sultry, passionate dance where you both clutched each other like a pair of lovers. The two of you embraced in the throes of an intense metaphysical tryst.
And when it’s done. When the period is added to the last sentence, you tell yourself it couldn’t have gone any better for you.
But then it happens.
While you’re laying there smoking your post-coital, and oh so ubiquitous cigarette, your Muse packs a few bags.
And while clutching round trip tickets to Aruba against a bosom, your Muse quietly slips away unseen in the darkness.
But you don’t seem to notice. You’re still too engrossed in the heady sensations of your creative passion. Besides, you haven’t finished your cigarette yet.
Oh, and the nap. Let’s not forget the nap you take. After that creative romp, you need a little shut-eye. So you put out your cig, turn the lamp off and immediately succumb to blissful dreams of the beautiful stories you just created.
And then the next morning comes.
It’s another morning of your mouth tasting like the inside of trash can. It’s another day of you scratching your butt on the way to the bathroom. All the while attempting to deal with the ignominy of a severe case of bed hair.
After the shower and the several inglorious necessities of starting a new day, you finally make it to your office or your favorite writing space with a cup of coffee.
Still yawning, you fire up your faithful computer and sip your Joe then open your writing tool waiting as a blank page comes up. And you sit and stare at an image of a white cow lost in a blizzard and blink and sip, and sip, and sip.
And then it hits you. Your Muse has skipped town.
Now is when you realize you’re no longer creating. Creation was that something you and your Muse shared, those special moments in your life only your Muse and you experienced together.
This morning it’s just you and this nasty blank page staring back at you. As you sit there wondering if your Muse is enjoying a Melon Bramble or two while sunning themselves on some beach of white sand and azure water, you realize you’re going to have to write something.
You are on your own this morning.
With your cup of cold coffee.
Staring at a blank screen.
What the h*ll are you going to do now?
This is what separates the chaff from the wheat. What you do next is what defines a writer’s steady intentions over nothing but a haphazard whimsy. It’s about how you handle the discovery you don’t have something to say or anything to write about.
It’s the ability to write when the Muse has skipped town.
Your Muse is thousands of miles away, dude/dudette. They aren’t about to ruin their vacation by jumping on a plane and rushing to your rescue.
You have to write regardless of whether or not you feel the ability to create. You simply must sit your a*ss in that chair and come up with salient points that make a half-decent message and get it out there.
You can’t wait for your Muse to come back and start dancing with you once more.
You Are On Your Own.
What’s really scary is that my own personal Muse has evidently struck a gold mine on some really cheap package vacation deals. It seems like it’s out galavanting around the world more times than it’s sitting beside me these days.
This means I spend a lot of time writing and little or no time getting to Tango with my Muse, but I’m beginning to not mind as much as I used to. In the early days, when my Muse often morphed into the “dearly departed,” I would sit around and mope. I would spend days without writing anything.
Sometimes weeks or months.
It was almost like I was in mourning.
And then I made a decision I actually believe pissed off my Muse. I decided I was going to write (maybe even try to create) something every single day. I’m pretty sure the day I made that decision, my Muse drank a full fifth of Jack Daniels, smoked three packages of Camels without the filters, and four or five Cubans.
Not of the Mark variety.
Just as well. Who needs a phlegmy drunk a*ssed Muse anyways?
Nowadays, my Muse comes and goes as it likes. I think sometimes it just stops by to see if I want to hit the dance floor with it one more time. You know, for old time’s sake.
One more sultry pass around the boards just for the fun of it. Unfortunately, I just don’t have the time to party with Muse like I used to.
You see, I’ve got this writing thing I need to do, and besides, my Muse just informed me it’s gotta jet again. It seems like it hit the jackpot with a seven-day all-expenses-paid trip to China, it managed to get for a steal on some cruise ship.
Uh, I hope it stays gone for awhile.
At least until past the incubation period.
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