Museless

I woke up in a panic again this morning. I fear I will never find my muse again.

Muse is such a nice way of expressing the depressing truth of writers block without spelling it out. Say muse and it is immediately understood by anyone who has ever faced a blank page with a total lack of inspiration. Or in my case, the words still appear but they just lie there bored to tears.

It has been almost a year since I have been able to write anything I felt was worthwhile.

I could say writing was a phase that is now over. After all, I am getting more forgetful, maybe I just can’t concentrate anymore.

I have at least 27 aborted essays. A few I thought were successful until I reread them. And quite a number of ideas petered out after no more than a few paragraphs.

My muse is hiding under a rock somewhere or more likely has found a nicer apartment.

I liked some of the ideas, like the beginning of an essay about Harvey the giant rabbit who befriended Jimmy Stewart in a 1940s classic. I thought it might be nice to have a pooka to hang out with. We could just give up on reality and have a good time. But I don't drink as much as Harvey and Jimmy any more and that idea seemed to need alcoholic inspiration to keep it going.

I’ve thought about returning to the subject of college football, which is still overrun by big ten’s and 12s and even some bunch called the gang of eight … or was it nine? But I quickly figured out it was sort of a case of ‘been there, done that’. Besides, Jim dealt so well with that first round of football bashing, I didn't want to risk endangering our Football Saturday Truce.

I wanted to do an ode to the Great British Baking show, but somehow after watching an episode, I am inspired more by the oven than the keyboard. Did make a nice Bakewell tart, a Victorian sandwich cake and a dozen fairy cakes my grandsons rather approved of.

I tried to write about Little Women - about how I preferred Amy to Jo. How I was annoyed with Jo for being so militantly above girl things like makeup and nice clothes and was portrayed as a better person because of it. I thought you could believe in women’s rights in a really flattering dress and the right shade of lipstick. That’s why I insisted on naming our daughter Amy, who is, I might say, a true feminist with a little mascara.

Then there was the one about trying to take photos of birds. That lasted as long as that one sentence. Birds have tendency to be far away and disappear before I can get close enough for a good shot.

Oh yeah, I got going on an essay about the superiority of cannoli in Sicily and another about my travels, trying to keep up with my husband and his 85 year old sister who is in better shape than either of us.

So it hasn't been for a lack of inspiration. It’s just that my muse doesn't stick around long enough for my essay to work out. Kind of like those birds who don't seem to want to be in my photos.