What does my muse look like? A lot like me, but much younger; late twenties, perhaps early thirties. She’s tall and lean with long flowing dark hair that is crazy-wild. Her eyes are full of fire and attitude. You wouldn’t mess with this girl. But who IS she exactly?
Sometimes, she’s right there on my shoulder, whispering delightfully witty prose into my ear. Other times, she’s stomping around the room, steam coming from her ears as she rants and raves about the injustices in her life. She can weep like a little girl with her first crush or spew sensual lines of love.
My muse also has an “I don’t give a sh*t” attitude sometimes. At these times, what ends up on the screen is not worth the effort it took to type it.
There are times when my muse is exhausting. Tap, tap, tapping at the keys, furiously trying to record the thoughts in her (my) head. I can barely keep up with the flow of her need to express herself.
Sometimes my muse disappears. She gives me no notice, doesn’t leave a note letting me know when or if she’ll be back. She’s terribly selfish at times like this.
But eventually, she comes back, perky and smiling, ready to provide me with more inspiration, ideas and the gift of expressing my inner thoughts.
I know my muse better than anyone else. Ever. But there are times when she surprises me. She can be very dark, ugly even. The things that she’s forced me to write make me shudder and shake my head with revulsion. I’m shocked at the brutality that comes forth. We somehow manage to reconcile and join forces again.
My muse is a shape-shifter. She’s an ever-changing kaleidoscope of colors, moods, and light. I love her and despise her. But I wouldn’t want to ever be without her.
Do you have a muse? What is your muse like?
Copyright (C) 2019 Penny wilson