So, on Thursday night, I invoked the muse. It had been a while, admittedly. The holiday season combined with too much analysis and a good dash of sloth all combined to create a distinctly non-creative stew.
But last night, I got hungry, hungry for real food. I realized I truly may never amount to anything if I do not work harder at my goals. Some of those goals are not completely under my control, but being a published writer is. So, I sat in front of my laptop, opened the document, and edited until around 11PM.
And just like that, the muse returned. She came slowly at first, having been ignored for so long. But deep down, she knows that I am honest. Though my devotion to a schedule might not be steadfast, my longing to be a storyteller and my thirst for the waters of creation are genuine.
Now, she’s gifted me with a little flame to tend. A flame that is growing steadily brighter as I read the story I began writing nearly five years ago, remember the joy it brought me, listen to the playlist I made for it, and find all sorts of ways to improve it. I had stopped editing seriously somewhere around Thanksgiving, but there will be no more long hiatuses.
The muse has been loving and extraordinarily patient. She is standing by to help make this novel the best it can be, as well as tending other stories for me in the strange nether world where ideas reside. I am already hearing the siren’s song of those other tales, as a matter of fact.
But first, I must finish what I started. I must apply myself faithfully and deliver the story I promised, the story that has been such a delight to me, to the world. No more fooling around.