The other side of the, "I write when the muse is ready," equation kicks in when "it" is ready to roll, but I've applied, and locked, the breaks. Such is the case with the embellished memoir that I am supposed to be working on.
What's holding me back? That would be my clinching heart, the sudden tears, and a deep reluctance to resolve, or even to approach the memories that are so tenaciously embodied within the based-on-true-events memoir.
I sooo don't want to hang out there, but my muse thinks otherwise. I suppose I could view this as a form of therapy. Nope. Still don't wanna be there. Yet time and again, I do answer the call and stay for as long as I can bear.
Meanwhile, there is poetry to write and formatting to do for Echoes ll, as well as working on this blog. So, it isn't as though I'm totally stifling the inspiration to write, but I am frequently aware of a certain sustained tension.
It is a strange sensation when the words and ideas are coming, only to pile up on the sandbar of my hesitation. Something is looming large on the edges of my awareness, unlike the snatches of poetry that lose their grip when ignored.
I fully expect that this welling tsunami is bound to break, and that it will forcefully spray it contents across the landscape of an open page, eventually. For now, brief visits to that shore are the best that I can do. Sorry, muse.
What's holding me back? That would be my clinching heart, the sudden tears, and a deep reluctance to resolve, or even to approach the memories that are so tenaciously embodied within the based-on-true-events memoir.
I sooo don't want to hang out there, but my muse thinks otherwise. I suppose I could view this as a form of therapy. Nope. Still don't wanna be there. Yet time and again, I do answer the call and stay for as long as I can bear.
Meanwhile, there is poetry to write and formatting to do for Echoes ll, as well as working on this blog. So, it isn't as though I'm totally stifling the inspiration to write, but I am frequently aware of a certain sustained tension.
It is a strange sensation when the words and ideas are coming, only to pile up on the sandbar of my hesitation. Something is looming large on the edges of my awareness, unlike the snatches of poetry that lose their grip when ignored.
I fully expect that this welling tsunami is bound to break, and that it will forcefully spray it contents across the landscape of an open page, eventually. For now, brief visits to that shore are the best that I can do. Sorry, muse.
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