Sing to me O Muse, of thy fickle and inconstant wiles.
I sit here at my computer desk as the rain comes pitter-pattering down outside my window. Outside it is a dull and grey day (like most days this time of year). It is a day for staying inside, of warming ones backside by a cozily lit fire, of doing nothing and expecting nothing. It is a day when the brain demands a break, when it wants to stew in its own sludge like me in a hot tub. For me though, I can’t rest. There’s a woman whispering in my ear and she won’t go away.
She’s a muse and she demands I listen. I love her and I loathe her. She’s the best and she’s the worst. When she’s present my writing explodes like a gigantic exploding thing of awesomeness (note to self: work on better similes). When she’s gone I sit listlessly regurgitating my words onto a screen with what seems to be little connection or worth.
Actually I’m lying. That’s only how I feel. My words are my words. There is no crazy floating lady spitting words directly into my brain. She, like the cake, is a lie, a falsehood, an excuse.
She’s what allows me to procrastinate and not get things finished. I can write when I choose to and usually it will sound good (unless you don’t like my writing style at which point you’re probably in the wrong place). It’s true that I do get flashes of inspiration, but do you know where they come from?
Certainly not from some mythical greek goddess lady. They come from me. My brain is constantly working in the background on projects and interesting scenes. Every once in a while it even feels free to share them (usually at inopportune moments).
The muse should be lumped in with the curse of writer’s block. Each are convenient and plausible excuses as to why I can’t write. They’re a crutch that need a good kicking. Now shoo and go away lady and cease thy unreliable contrivances.
Hark I must away. My power flickers as the winds howl outside. Goodbye, my dear imaginary audience, until next time.