The bitch I sat there in my usual spot fingers poised awaiting her dominion It will begin as a trickle I peck my way across the page She takes hold and the scenes unfolding behind my eyelids magically find their way to the page Magic It really does feel like magic She has hold of me My fingers glide unbidden forming the images in my mind's eye The world around me forgotten It's just me and the page This is the magic my muse wields for me But not today My Muse broke our appointment again The fickle bitch Copyright (C) 2021 Penny Wilson *The original version of this was written in 2018. I liked it very much back then, but I've revised and refreshed it here. I hope you enjoy.
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
Moments dissolve under my fingertips Meaningless The spark oh, that spark how I chase you! You tease me tempt me I dream of the other side of the page Blissful virginal world of my creation The rush! Spark ensnared! fleeting elusive Fingers fly across the keyboard before the evaporation of the Spark Copyright © 2019 Penny Wilson
I sat there
in my usual spot.
it just flows.
It begins as a trickle
peck, peck, pecking my way
onto the page.
Then she takes hold
and the scenes
unfolding behind my eyelids,
find their way
to the page.
It really does
feel like that.
She has hold of me.
My fingers glide,
forming the images
in my mind’s eye.
The world around me;
The page and me.
That is all
But not today.
broke our appointment;
Copyright (C) 2018 Penny Wilson
Today, your hair was silver with a touch of brown sprinkled in it. Your eyes are blue. We watched as that old woman patched another hole in her ragged doll’s dress.
But I remember the day that I saw you as a blonde Imp. With your devilish ways, you convinced me to bludgeon that horrible man to death. Your reasons were quite convincing, and you were right. He deserved it.
Isn’t this a lovely setting? Most of the time, no matter what my little desk really looks like, this is sort of where my brain goes. I need the order and serenity around me. If things in my life are not orderly, this is sort of what happens to my mind:
After I posted Productivity https://pennylanewrites.com/2017/07/26/productivity/ I was talking to one of my brothers. He asked me how much writing I had gotten done. Well, not much. I really have to be In The Zone.
There are bloggers, writers, here on WP that are So prolific. It amazes me! We talk a lot about our “muse”. I swear, some of these amazing writers have their muses sitting in their lap! Morgan over at https://booknvolume.com/ MUST be involved with THE romantic man on the planet to write as prolifically as she does! Amazing!
I have been fairly productive today. So, for now, I will return to my desk:
And continue my quest to complete the Great American Novel. 🙂
I’ve written about my little dog, Rocket, several times here. He is pretty much my constant companion and a never ending source of inspiration.
I decided I needed a proper work area for my writing. Figuring that I would be more productive. So I came up with this:
It’s working out pretty well. It gets me away from the TV and it’s much better on my back than sitting hunched over the keyboard in my lap, or sitting up in bed. Although I am still looking for a better chair.
Usually, while I’m writing, Rocket is right there beside me, snuggled up against my side. He asks only for the occasional scratch or a tummy rub and a few words of adoration. That’s very little in payment, considering the muse that he has become.
I said it. It’s not something I’ve allowed myself to say until now.
I’ve been writing off and on since I was a kid. But the last 5 or 6 years, the keyboard has really called to me. THIS is when I am the happiest. THIS is where I’ve found my purpose.
I’ve found my niche.
But to call myself a Writer? Heck, I’ve just been having a good time!
Sometimes my muse will disappear and the keyboard gathers dust. But other times, like now, I can’t wait to sit down and start writing!
I’ve been blogging now for more than 5 years. In addition to my blog, I have 2 novels that I’m working on.
So yeah, I’m a writer!
You knew what I was like without you.
You knew the mess I would be.
The pale light of the stars is of little solace.
A captured moment dissolves between my fingers.
The spark, oh that spark, I chase you.
I dive headlong through the white, only to dream of the other side.
It does not exist.
Why have you left me?
Alone, it is too much.
My muse, where have you gone?
You are the well from which I drink.
Each breath with you is retched and welcoming.
Your presence can cleanse or stain this heart.
You are a curse, yet I must have you.
I need you, though I despise you.
My nourishment is gone.
You feed this soul with your beauty, your horror and pain.
Have you abandoned me?