Author Debi Matlack asked the other day if anyone had seen her muse lately. She described him as being about seven inches tall with leathery wings and a faint smell of sulfur. (I put forth the suggestion that our muses had run off to the Caymans together, since mine has been noticeably absent the past week or so.)
It’s funny, though. While my muse can be as evil and shifty as Debi’s, when I think of it I picture a female dressed in something gauzy and with a faint glow of creativity shining around her. I blame this visualization on the television series Charmed. In the episode where something was killing off the Muses, that’s the way they portrayed them. It’s stuck in my head ever since.
It’s easy to blame my recent lack of writing on some ephemeral creature who flits in and out when the notion strikes her. If I blame it on my muse I don’t have to admit that the real reason I’m not writing is because I’m lazy.
Yeah, that’s right; I said it. I’m lazy.
I can blather on and on about how I’m uninspired, but to quote the late, great Colonel Sherman Potter, that’s horse hockey. (Man, I watch a lot of canceled television shows, don’t I? Maybe that’s my problem…) I’ve got three books in the works right now; how much more inspiration do I need? I’ve got great characters, interesting stories, hot rock gods – there’s my inspiration right there. The reality is that I’m not uninspired, I’m just too lazy to work on them. The reality is that my muse hasn’t run off to the Caymans, I’m just ignoring her.
Y’all, I could swear that something or someone just smacked me upside the back of my head.
So today I write. The muse is here, the inspiration is here; I just have to buckle down and do it.