If you spend enough time around me you’ll stumble across me complaining about my Muse. I’m always complaining about my Muse. I think maybe this accounts for why my non-writing friends fancy me weird :). My Muse and I have a special love hate relationship… sometimes it’s more hate than love. I think she must be stuck in perpetual adolescence. I often feel like hugging my mother and apologizing for ever being teenage girl when I’ve got to deal with my Muse when she gets into one of those moods.
Other times I worry that she’s run off with some (un)lucky gal or guy she’s picked up at the bar. Those are the times when she doesn’t show up at all… no matter how much I coax, no matter how much coffee I drink (a favourite of hers) or ice-cream I consume. I just get left with a heftier waistline and no words on my page.
There’s only one thing worse than my Muse being constantly absent. What? The times when she shows up just to see how much more success she’s had in her mission to drive me insane. Pleasant girl, my Muse is.
After being missing for I don’t know a good month or so my Muse has shown up with the enthusiasm of the energizer bunny … if that energizer bunny was on crack. It’s been like the reverse of writers’ block… like the opening of the writers’ floodgate or something. Except, she’s just been so damned unfocussed. The writer’s golden question, “What would happen if…” is being thrown at me with different scenarios so fast I’m dizzy. Then when I sit down and try to outline something or write out something it disappears and is replaced with something my Muse thinks is bigger and better. And like this we’ve been dancing the dark waltz for the past two days. Silly me for thinking I ever danced lead.