#WriterLifeMonth Day 21: Your muse.


That motherfucker. 

Where do I even begin with this one? My muse is impudent, impish, chaotic, and all around kind of an asshole. I don’t know how I’ve survived him. 

But I love him, too. He’s seductive. He’s alluring. He brings stories like water. 

He won’t just show up though. I have to lure him. 

Some days (many, many days; most days) he isn’t even there. I forge on alone. I write my crappy first drafts and revise them into better second drafts and good third drafts. I write some more. I keep writing, with or without him. 

What finally lures him? I’m not sure. Often he comes not because it amuses him, or because he feels like showering me with some inspiration – no. He comes because I sat down and I wrote. I wrote for days and weeks and months. I wrote without him. I did not wait for him to show up. I wrote.

I think he hates that. I think he hates being irrelevant. I think he comes simply because he wants to be seen and known. He doesn’t want to be forgotten.

So he comes to me. He comes to me, bringing stories like water. 


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