So, my muse is pretty pissed off at me. I’m not sure how your muse looks like, but mine’s a little fairy of a thing. Thin arms, tiny hands, sarcastic sense of humor, brilliant mind. She’s been with me as long as I can remember, always sending me bits of inspiration at inconvenient times.
Like that moment just before my head hits the pillow. Or that groggy, zombie-like moment when the alarm first rings. Or basically every moment of every day no matter what I’m doing. At least, she used to.
You see, I started neglecting my muse after awhile. Even though she kept sending me ideas, I stopped writing them down. Actually, I stopped writing entirely. And eventually, my muse got fed up with me and left.
See the thing with muses is, you can’t just snap your fingers and expect them to show up. They need to know that you’re serious, that they’re not wasting their time with you. They need to see you sitting down and writing. Brownie points if you can make them laugh at how frustrated you are because your writing sounds like a bunch of discombobulated chickens without them.
Before she left, my muse said something because of course, she had to have the last word:
“Do you even remember why you started writing? What the words used to mean to you? Because I do. And it’s a shame that you forgot.”
She was right. Somewhere down the line of Life kicking my butt, I forgot why I started this writing thing in the first place. I got too caught up in “Nobody’s reading anyway” and “I’m just not in the mood to write”, and I forgot about that little girl who made up background stories for her stuffed animals, which of course, got changed around every day because she could never remember what she made up the day before.
Before I decided to resuscitate my blog and send out an SOS to my muse, I thought long and hard about everything that I forgot. And this is what I remembered:
I write because I can see a piece of myself in every word and hear the beat of my heart in every sound.
I write because turning myself into words on a page and learning where I need to revise and where I’m not doing so badly, that’s my medicine for, well, everything.
I write to share my heart with anyone who may stumble by and decide to open theirs. I may not write what others want to read, but I write anyway, because at the end of the day, my writing is my life. And I live my life for no one but myself.
Did you hear that? Sounds like my muse letting herself in the door.