Once there was a time when my inner muse and I were one and the same. Peas in a pod. Completely and totally in sync with each other. I had such insistent strikes of inspiration from my muse that I would stop on the side of the road to jot down a character conversation, poem, or just good notes before they slipped away. I even went so far as to carry a small notebook in my pocket with a small pen at all times just in case inspiration ever struck me while communing with nature or sitting around a campfire with friends. Anywhere I was, I always went prepared.
About a year ago my muse started flitting in and out on me, though still making quite regular, dependable appearances. I could force it to sit with me and finish a chapter when it wanted to run off. I made it hang around long enough to finish a book when it insisted there was no finishing. My muse obeyed me on command.
Of late it seems that my muse has taken to some strange, mysterious life that it doesn’t want to share with me. I have been unable to finish my current novel, unable to get a decent outline written for the next, and incapable of strapping it to an imaginary chair to finish a simple chapter.
What I would like to know is, what exactly has my muse been up to? Is it plotting against me or perhaps seeking a newer, younger author to take up residence with? Has it decided that I am now a lost cause, that it has done its job and deserves a vacation? Does it think that I’m overworking it, driving it to madness, treating it like a slave?
Will it abandon me?
All year it seems it has been struggling against me. When I try to call it forward, it slips away. When I try to force it to sit with me, it stubbornly refuses to work. Quite frankly, it seems to hate me. And yet, despite all of this, I am still to bend to its call. When it has a stroke of inspiration and wants me to write, no matter where I am or what I am doing I have to obey. Our roles have been reversed!
If you want to know what I think, I think it is trying to punish me for years of abuse. Years of forcing it to my will. But above all else, what I really want to know and wish I had a creative enough muse to write down in clever words, is this:
What sort of mysterious life has my inner muse selected over that of the written word?