The Never-Ending Ramblings...

Missing Muse

Well, I am so totally disappointed in myself for not continuing on with my book. I keep trying to replay the positive aspects of participating for as long as I did. But it doesn’t help. It’s been three weeks since I got eliminated and I’m jus now able to write about it. Rather than focus on the positive, my mind replays the negative. No follow through. I knew you couldn’t do it. What an idiot you ere for thinking you could. Now what?

To make matters worse, I’ve lost my creative muse. My common sense tells me this is normal. Not to worry. You’ve been sick, I keep saying. But it’s no good. I keep beating myself up. About it. Not being able to focus on anything creative.

So, I thought I’d go for a walk, try and find my creative muse. See if I can discover where its been hiding.

“Stop being stupid.” I tell myself. “What kind of idiot goes looking for her muse?”

“I do.” I shoot back. I’m grabbing my pink sweater before I can argue with myself anymore.

“You’ll see.” I whisper to myself. “No where. Your muse is gone. On an undetermined leave of absence. In fact, she may have gone AWOL.”

I smile anyway. In spite of my negativity. “Super fantastic.” I’m arguing in. Now, I’m worried. What is it they say about people who talk to themselves? I don’t even want to know.

I slam the front door. “Let me have twenty minutes.” My feet stomp down the dirt driveway, ignoring Luna and Dakota, hanging their huge paws on the backyard chain link fence. Just wanting a pat on the head.

Now, I’m talking out loud. To no one. Further underscoring my idiocy. I can’t help it. Something’s gotta get done. This muse has to be found. “I’m sorry.” I mutter. “I know I cut you off, when I didn’t meet the book deadline. I was busy. With the tournament. Don’t you remember?”

No answer.

“And then, I got sick. But I wrote that poem this past Saturday. Doesn’t that count for something?””

Still there is silence.

“C’mon cut me some slack. I even have a doctor’s excuse”

No response.

“Do I need to make a copy?”

“No.”

“What? Did you say something?

Again, nothing.

I”I heard you.” I protest.

Now, I’m begging. I’m pretty good at begging, having had cough cough something years to practice. It’s not pretty, well, unless, OH NEVERMIND.

Anyway. I finally made up with my muse. But she’s still mad. She isn’t shy about letting me know it either. I’ve written a few private journal entries trying to make things right with her. I so love it when words flow from my fingertips onto the keyboard and stories are created. Then posted, read and reviewed and rated. I feel so whole. So complete. So alive. So super fantastic. I miss my muse.