For the second time, I sat down to write a blog and wrote a story instead. This one was non-fiction, which means it shall live and die on my hard-drive or maybe printed out and tucked away in my journal. It's not much of a story, I suppose, a vignette of my evening with my younger niece and nephew, babysitting. Not that it's really babysitting these days. I am the adult presence, the arbiter of the remote, she who vetoes all horror flicks beyond a PG rating. "But Dad lets me..."
Still, I sat down to write a blog and managed a story. It's evidence, I suppose, proof positive that I have not completely lost touch with my muse. I think she's a lazy muse, probably fat like me, round-cheeked and huffing from the effort.
One of my fellow WOK bloggers posted a dialogue with his muse, one structured with encouragement and the certainty of her existence.
I am not always convinced of mine. She is quiet, whispering when she must but otherwise silent as she snuggles into the folds of grey matter she's meant to stimulate. I think she sings lullabies, drinks hot cocoa in the dark. She sleeps a lot.
This blog challenge has put me to keyboard, roused her with the jump and pulse of my brain-waves. She pushes back against her one-time pillow, forcing false starts and stuttering the snap of a back-and-forth dialogue. And yet, stories...!
It's not that I never write. I don't mean to imply that. I am good at forcing pages when the deadline looms. But the regular act, the daily routine, is hard. The muse is stubborn. She hates mornings as much as I do, is grumpy and disgruntled, scratches at her head, cracks her jaw and wobbles her chin in weary annoyance at being disturbed. She likes evenings little better, always ready to pack it in early, nest herself in a night's dreams.
And yet, tired and grumpy and out of shape, she produces. I produce, poking and prodding at her all the while.
This is good.