This is not a musing.
I haven’t written in weeks, and now that I have my own site, I think it’s definitely a fine time to post a new blog. Sure, I have been busy and very stressed, but that’s not the reason for not writing. Usually being busy and stressed provides me with more than enough reasons to rant. Believe me, lately humanity has upset me to the point where I should be able to write volumes. For me to write, however, I need more than subject matter; I need my muse – the spark that allows me to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and write something meaningful or at least entertaining.
Allow me to explain further by examplificating (yes, that is now a word). I like to make cakes – weird cakes – that require more than just slapping some frosting on a round cake. There is creativity and planning involved. If I’m not in the mood or mind-set to make a cake that looks like a dragon, for instance, then I’m going to have a lot of issues with it. The cake will turn out dry or crumbly, I’ll run out of ingredients for the frosting, and then dragon will end up looking like a puke-spewing blue cow on crack. For those who do not make cakes, let me say it would be like, um… having sex when you’re not in the mood – a fruitless disaster waiting to happen. I’m not sure why you would have fruit involved with that in the first place and I truly do not want to know.
Writing is the same, at least for me; I don’t involve fruit in it either. So my muse packed up in the middle of the night and all it left behind was a piece of wood. Yes, a block of wood that said, “This belongs to: a writer“. Hilarious, I know. I would like to think it gets its sense of humor from me. At first I thought it just felt overworked and was taking a much deserved vacation. I was sure it had gone to a nice resort to sit under dangling participles and soak up the pun. After the second week, I was getting concerned. Maybe my muse didn’t want to come back to me. I imagined it sitting on the curb with an elegantly written cardboard sign stating, “Will inspire you for food.” When the third week passed, I was devastated, I believed it was gone forever. In fact, I felt that my muse committed extreme suicide. I pictured it popping handfuls of pills, throwing itself Anna Karenina-style onto train tracks, then finishing itself off with a hanging. I was convinced until today that I had heard my fair muse wheezing and sputtering.
To my surprise and great relief, my muse sneaked back into my life early this morning. It was sitting in a dark corner by my laptop and about scared the script right out me. We had some coffee and a much needed conversation. I found that it was all a clever scheme. My muse had noticed my loss of interest in writing and decided to take the “tough love” approach. Who else but Haycomet would overcome writer’s block by writing about having writer’s block? My muse knew what it was doing. I hope to be writing every week as I did in the past, and I’ll just use the block to keep the kitchen table from wobbling.