My muse is such a contrary bastard. “Ornery thing,” as my godmother used to say of her more temperamental child. He wanders in and out of my mind like a drunk to the bathroom, and the surest way to lure him to my side is to publicly denigrate him.
I did this with much flair last weekend, accusing him of being like Guffman, leaving the seat beside me at my writing desk empty, because he never comes to fill it.
He was not amused.
He showed up Sunday morning with 4500 words in tow. But the April Fool’s joke was on me, because those words had nothing to do with the project I am currently striving to complete. Clearly my muse wants to be present only for the fun part of writing, and leave the real work to me.
Or maybe it’s that, after 20 years of holding my hand, he thinks I don’t need him any more.
Is that true? Did he lift his hands off my bike when I wasn’t looking, so that I could ride alone even when he wasn’t able to come with me? Is this growing up as an artist?
And can I just skip the fiercely independent stage and skip straight to this one?:
Because I think we’re both going to be happier with that arrangement.