Actually, I don’t think I ever had a muse. I’ve always seen myself as a pure writer filled with ideas and I imagined that they came to me organically and automatically whenever I summoned them. Lately though I am rethinking this notion. My talent hasn’t gone anywhere. I do get spurts where a poem or passage flows quite lovely from my word-well, but since the passing of my mom, it doesn’t flow as often. I know I am still in the healing stage, but not writing as often as I usually do feels very weird. Like I’m cheating in some way when I’d rather binge-watch House of Cards or play Beyond Good and Evil on my Xbox 360 than write a blog post or work on my second novel.
Admitting this truth isn’t easy. Whenever friends or others need inspiration for their art I am the first person to spur them on so it may seem like I’m always on my shit. Not so, ladies and gentlemen. Not so. At least not right now. In fact, this is the first blog post I’ve written this year. That is unheard of for me.
So, I must ask myself, is my muse hibernating? Am I waiting for a big rush of literary air to wash over me? If so, I think I’m in for a rude awakening. Even though I do believe in outward inspiration as I am often inspired and sparked by other writers, but as a creator, I have always been connected to a special place within my self that felt a NEED to write. I think these days I feel a NEED to grieve, watch TV and eat chocolate. See, I have to keep it real with myself in order to get back to the ME that I know I am. Mama Francine would not want me to not put my pain, love, joy, observations, grief, anger, disbelief or social commentary on the page. Sorry mama, if I’m letting you down, but the past six months have been mind boggling. I go from reflection to tears to glee to indifference to anger so quickly that it makes my head spin. Still. I miss you. Still.
You’re not coming back.
I must write because it’s who I am, how I connect, how I love, how I live.
I will fight through this to find my muse.
I will honor you with my life as I write.
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