...all when she is certain we are isolated from our keyboards and powerless to channel golden thoughts. She is, I am convinced, amused by our frustration.
I taunt her unmercifully, though seldom without recompense. I can feel her jealousy when I neglect to credit her with talent and selfishly usurp her glory. She fills my head with her glorious stories, causing me to awake with them fully formed, then laughs uproariously as they dissolve during my morning shower.
In a failed attempt to trick her, I stationed a pad and pencil near my bed, hoping to capture the stories before they dissolved. But the night is her domain and she was always aware of my preparations and would leave my mind as barren as an eighty year old virgin.
I grew frustrated and weak-minded by her deprivation and tried to taunt her by allowing others to call me names:..."Administrator", they would call me, "coordinator" and " technician", even "manager". I ceased to use the title she bestowed upon me, and refused to call myself as a writer.
But it wasn't long before she returned, gradual at first, then stronger, closer...louder. I tried to keep myself clean from her filthy enticement. I attempted to drain away her inspiration through social contact, through dedication to my work....but I began to weaken. The more I tried to ignore her gifts, discount her visions, and disregard the words she offered, the brighter the colors, the stronger the aroma and the louder became the sounds.
I was drawn inward where stories blossomed, ripened and died noble and heroic deaths. Unable to concentrate, I soon fell out of favor with the world. I lost my edge, lost my capacity for temporal awards, and it was not long until I lost my title. The world refused to call me "manager" any more. I returned to my keyboard.
It is an uneasy peace. I know her pride, I feel her conceit, and fear her insane jealousy. She is a wary partner and ours is an uneasy armistice.
Beware the Muse.
Appease your muse with gifts for the writer.
Victorian Desk set
Harry Potter Desk Set
