It used to be that when my muse called, I answered.
When the verse came to me, speaking in a melodic version of my own inner voice, telling me that it was time to write, I listened to it. Nothing could hold me back, at least not for long.
There was work to do.
Now I’m struggling. Words don’t come as quickly, my muse fleeing. A fickle lover, I think she must feel scorned by happiness and company.
Or maybe I’m at fault. A part of me never noticed she’d taken her leave until the return. A rare quiet moment is all it took, and she came rushing back as though she’d never leave. It’s not her fault my congested brain shoves her out at every opportunity.
Whatever the reason I know I have to do better. There’s no other options — I’ve spent all the time I have to run out of. Months and months have gone by. I’m either going to succeed or not. Am I willing to give up love to have quiet space to write? No. Do I have to?
Absolutely not.
So here we are. Learning to cooperate. Not accepting that I should mourn one or the other.
Every day is an excellent time to start.
Fraying Pages 