It appears that my muse is upset with me. Sadly, I can tell this by the response I get when I ask, "What shall we write a poem about now?" ... and all I hear in is the lonely, unsettling sound of crickets.
I've had so many random and essential tasks to attend to lately, and each of them left me little option but to ignore her nudging whispers, though I desperately wished that I could just stop and jot them down.
I can sense the presence of my muse, muted now by my persistent inattentiveness, and I certainly can't blame the poor thing for sulking around some corner, close at hand, yet just out of reach.
I've heard of some writers who try various maneuvers and ingenious tricks to coax their inspiration back out of hiding. Some have even resorted to one magic brew or another to achieve this end.
Well, I have begun to clear the decks of all truly unnecessary items, and will employ what has always works for me: I'll give my muse a little time, and room, to fully exhaust her well deserved pout.
This is not the first such spat I've had with my inspiration. There have been many long dry spells in my writing career, and I expect that there will be more yet again. But, not to worry.
Eventually, we will be composing again as if nothing at all was amiss. This is a lesson that I learned long ago, and which bears relearning over time: neither force nor bribery nor any substance known will win my muse home again quite like that of patiently abiding.
I've had so many random and essential tasks to attend to lately, and each of them left me little option but to ignore her nudging whispers, though I desperately wished that I could just stop and jot them down.
I can sense the presence of my muse, muted now by my persistent inattentiveness, and I certainly can't blame the poor thing for sulking around some corner, close at hand, yet just out of reach.
I've heard of some writers who try various maneuvers and ingenious tricks to coax their inspiration back out of hiding. Some have even resorted to one magic brew or another to achieve this end.
Well, I have begun to clear the decks of all truly unnecessary items, and will employ what has always works for me: I'll give my muse a little time, and room, to fully exhaust her well deserved pout.
This is not the first such spat I've had with my inspiration. There have been many long dry spells in my writing career, and I expect that there will be more yet again. But, not to worry.
Eventually, we will be composing again as if nothing at all was amiss. This is a lesson that I learned long ago, and which bears relearning over time: neither force nor bribery nor any substance known will win my muse home again quite like that of patiently abiding.
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