I seem to be having a particularly difficult time making myself transcribe my life and inward contemplations for the purposes of furthering my literary art.
Quite simply, I'm not inspired to write.
My friend Traci and I once had a very lovely conversation over cigarettes and coffee in which she relayed to me her feelings on the notion of a muse.
"Sometimes she's there and sometimes she's not. You simply have to respect her," she said.
"The important thing is not to give up on her while she's away. If she's gone then she simply must be coaxed back. And wallowing in artless misery is by no means attractive."
So here I am: coaxing.
My muse has an odd sense of humor considering how she/he/ze/they pops onto my shoulder and into my mind at the most awkward and inconvenient of moments.
I spent a good portion of Sunday at the Portland water front enjoying the grease and sugar of the Rose Festival carnival and while there I was bombarded by brilliant occurrences. Everything seemed to thirsty for description. Stories burst from every miserable ride attendant and angry single mother. And where was my notebook? Where was my presence of mind?
I'll tell you: gorging myself on cotton candy, hot fudge mud pie, and my lovely boyfriend.
Whether or not I plucked any creative bits from amidst the chaos, I still had a lovely time.
Etiquette for an Apocalypse
11 years ago
1 reaction(s):
Give yourself a break. You've just finished the mammoth task of final college finals--finally. It's got nothing to do with the muse--you're spent, that's all. You need to recharge your batteries. Read, experience, see, hear. You'll feel the spark soon enough.
And, remember, collecting those impressions is part of the process. Writing isn't typing.
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