I have been a bad writer.
I've neglected my blog. This one, anyway. But not for the reasons you might thing.
I have been writing. I’ve been writing a lot. I've been editing, polishing, and learning words for parts of the writing world that I didn't even know had words. Which means I'm completely out of practice. I don't remember how to just write for the sake of writing - I have been writing for purposes.
I will try to be better with the free-flow you’ve come to know at this blog. I really will. Honest.
Although…I do have stuff I really want to show you. But I can’t. Even though it’s some of my best and most beautiful stuff I have ever written, I can’t.
Because I have a muse.
And you know, those muses are curious creatures. They come out of nowhere, and you don’t even realise they are inspirational until stuff starts coming out of your mind and onto your creative palate and you realise what inspired you.
If you have a muse, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Not necessarily your spouse, though it’s nice when they combine like that. That’s a lot less explaining to do.
If you don’t have one, that’s okay. A muse is not necessary to be a creative person. And if you’re not a particularly creative person (we all are but that’s a topic for another blog) you might not understand it at all except to think that the artist hangs around with the muse just to get laid.
Except that the muse-artist relationship transcends even that.
This is not back in the day when the muse would lie around the artist’s abode, eating grapes out of a wooden bowl and look bored while the artist, all doe-eyed and full of Dionysian lust, would create in a mad fury, to the exclusion of bathing, eating, sleeping, just to appease the muse so they would finally put down the grapes and say the most benign compliment imaginable, “Oh that’s nice.” sending the artist into either an enraged spiral of madness because they hadn’t achieved the outpouring of idolization and support they had expected, or a slump of shame that made them want to cast away the artwork they had slaved over for days just to create something even more impressive for the muse. The muse continued to eat grapes, and maybe have a glass of water.
The part about the lust being channeled into the works rather than into the muse is the definition of the term. No matter what French movies may make you believe, that, right there, is the essence of being inspired by the muse.
My muse has a high level of intellect. Do I look like I would choose someone stupid to be my muse? It’s difficult to be inspired by someone when you have to explain to them what a syllable is. Though I’m sure given the opportunity to take a mini vacation, the muse would be more than happy to sit around and eat bowlfuls of grapes and be unintentionally soul-crushingly critical.
My muse has no idea they are my muse but they could easily figure it out. Especially because of the intellect. And maybe even the grapes.
I have tried to rewrite some of these new pieces in some type of disguise, but it’s like veiling something in saran wrap.
So those pieces stay hidden.
But at least I’m writing. And if you happen to be a muse, or think you might be a muse, or even THE muse, enjoy your role. Know you’ve awakened someone’s creative soul, keeping them up late at night with caffeine jitters just to get the most benign compliment imaginable.