There are times in the writing life when words wither like brittle weeds at season’s end. Although these droughts should not come as unexpected, they are most certainly unwelcomed. Whatever the reason, be it the pressures of life, busy chaos of work, or just plain exhaustion, it seems hardest to buckle down and get to the business of writing. Unfortunately, it is also the time when The Muse takes her leave, for she detests the mundane. If two heads are better than one, surely, she realizes that while under duress I need her most at my side. But, no, she retreats and dallies about.
Double-Minded Much?
I speak of her often. How can I not? We are two, yet one and the same. She is the other part of me. The wild and uninhibited me. The free and adventurous me. The bold and daring me. The part that completes me. Like two halves, we unite to form the whole. It’s a paradox, I know, but we are not contradictory, merely synonymous.
Though she hasn’t revealed her real name, I fondly refer to her as La Luz, after my own dear sister, Lucinda, whose short life on this earth was but a few moments. And who, I’m certain, had such a carefree spirit that simple mortal life could not contain her here. It’s quite a befitting sobriquet for my Muse, since her name itself denotes light. And that is precisely what she brings me. I am always enlightened in her presence. Her radiance has led me through the darkness on many an occasion.
A Beacon to Illuminate My Prose.
She speaks not in words. We have a telepathic thread between us. And her unspoken whispers find their way to my ears in the wee hours. When I am thrashing about and drowning in a jumbled mass of words, her beacon calls me to shore. When perfectly formed prose can’t flow from my brain and spill from my lips like a virulent waterfall, she breaks the dam. When sentences are mere ramblings, tangled and incoherent, she straightens the kinks. I scream and I cry, and she comforts me. And in these things, I depend on her even more so. I put a light in my window and wait for her.
Upon her return, I see that she has brought recruits. She leads the charge as a drill sergeant at boot camp, blasting, “Hup, two, three. . . A, B, C.” She gives a stiff salute and yells, “Attention.” The good little Letter Soldiers snap in response and form the line from A to Z.
After inspection, my precocious Letter Sergeant blares, “Fall out.” All the letter troops march to her song, “I’m a letter. Yes, I am. Forming words the best I can.” They rush into my brain, march through the lobes, and jump across the synapses. Like the strong, fearless leader she is, she guides them out of my head, into my neck, and down the muscles of my arms. There, she relinquishes them to my awaiting hands, ready at the keyboard.
Mission Accomplished.
Soon thereafter, words form. Then phrases. Sentences. Paragraphs. And finally, stories, novels, or a grocery list or two. (We have to start somewhere, right?)
I’ve come to believe that her wanderings are not accidental, but serve as a lesson. To teach me to fend for myself. To stop my railing tantrums. To make me write as I never have before. And when I do this, she offers me a salute. Just before she departs on another journey, she flaunts a mischievous smile and murmurs, “Well done. Now, let’s write some more.”
