Where is my Muse?

Lately I’ve had a hard time forcing myself to sit down and write. Nothing comes. I scratch my head. I flip through my notebook of ideas. I’m trying to force the muse and the muse is not happy.  I try again.  Still nothing. The baby cries and my time is up.  Before I had children, my time to write was at night, music on, and the emotions would flow out of my pen quickly and easily. Very little self editing was necessary. Now I struggle to eke out a page. It’s like carving a sentence in stone; the process is slow and arduous.  I get fed up and walk away before the hard work is done.

The truth is I don’t like to write. There. I said it. It’s bloodletting onto the page. It’s an invitation to a private part of myself I don’t always like people to see.  I’m a people pleaser at times.  A sensitive soul.  An introvert.  Being judged for my words is torturous.  Writing is cathartic for me. I don’t always like to share, but when I do, magic happens. Other mothers tell me they feel the same way.  It drives me to continue, to connect, to leave a small mark behind that is mine.

I relate to Dorothy Parker who said, “I hate writing, I love having written.”  At least I’m in good company.  It’s reassuring I’m not the only writer who dreads the task.

So I try again when the mood is right, emotions are high, time is critical.  At the right moments the words flow like water out of a bucket in big gushes and I must write quickly to get it all on the page before it slips away.  It is hard work.  My hand hurts.  I am empty.  When it is done and I am spent, I reread what I have done.  I am weightless!  I did it!  I am pleased.  Tomorrow I will do it all again.  I pray my muse returns with a bucket brimming with words.

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