Going. Going. Gone. My Muse is acting like a yo-yo that has been shot into outer space and has lost the energy to return to my outstretched palm. The string, taut at first, went limp eight weeks ago and now dangles from my poised middle finger which, by default, is conveniently flipping her the bird for her delayed return.
Darla skipped toward me on the melody of a Beatle’s tune when I decided to become serious about my writing. She danced through asteroid belts, whizzed past red shifting stars, and circumvented planets to introduce herself as my Muse during a writer’s retreat meditation. She promised to show up whenever I plopped my butt in the chair with the intention to write. Could she have meant it literally? Don’t sofas, beds, and hammocks count? Sheesh! We made a pact. I have the added padding on my bottom to prove it.
Well, I’m tired of waiting around. I’m rolling the rock away, crawling out from under it, and leaving my cave today. Watch out, Muse! Here I come…
And look how quickly she’s returned.
I suppose I can’t be too angry with her. The notion of being catered to is rather tempting ~
Collage/Painting Credit: artist unknown, 2017, Delray Beach, FL