You know the one where you're looking forward to Monday just so that you can catch your breath.
And through the in's and out's of all there is to do, my discipline for working on a short story writing assignment per my friendly throw-down contest with an undergrad friend is well, not going so well.
Why is it so hard to say goodbye to the to-do's and carve out space for the creative process?
Where do we find our inspiration?
Where is our muse?
Staring off into an oblivion listening to music, "Bright Lights and Cityscapes" by Sara Bareilles came on...take a listen.
And then it came. It's as though, as the writer, you yearn to be inhabited by the muse...whomever she may be. You want her to come on like a freight train and you to be ready, the vessel, through which the message will be delivered to the world. You, the noticer, the observer, the pen....and she the bright lights and cityscapes. And somewhere in the process, you're exhilarated, mystified, worn out, never wanting her to leave you...but then, as all good things do, she must go. And you're left holding the pen wondering when she'll return, exhausted and a bit sad.
I'm certain the creatives find inspiration in the most mundane and the most majestic of spots. Their partners, blades of grass, color, tragedy, love, desire, washing the dishes, a toe nail, cancer, the birth of a baby.
The world is filled with stories begging to be told. But sometimes, no matter how hard you try or how deeply you pay attention or how frequently you show up to write, your muse is no where to be found.
It is in these moments that I've decided to stop chasing her and instead to invent her or to recreate her based on the stories inside my heart or those I create in others.
I suppose at the end of the day, muse or no muse, the goal is to keep writing...to keep creating...to keep being the vessel, trusting that the words and the tales need to be told, if only for the benefit of me.