Beginnings bring hope and hope brings beginnings. And, so I sit, at the beginning of this sunny day, looking forward, with hope, at the many possibilities in front of me. Many things that can be written. So, I prepare for my muse. Will she visit me? She'll promise you more than the garden of Eden.
I prepare my morning drink. Sip. Arrange my desk. Sip. Open the blinds. Sip. Sit down to type. Sip. Listen to the songbirds outside my window greet Apollo. Sip. The sounds of my wife getting ready in the other room. Sip. The clock strikes eight. Sip.
I fall back on the comfort of routine to drive me forward, while waiting for the muse to make her glorious appearance. Perhaps for some, the muse does arrive this way, in a flash of inspiration, first thing in the morning. I want to be the type of writer who can sit down at his desk first thing in the morning and knock out hundreds of words of brilliance. But my muse is coy. She hides and flirts, staying just out of my vision and my grasp until she she’s convinced that I'm truly serious. She only reveals what she wants you to see.
So, I write anyway. Uninspired sentences. In fits and starts. I give up. I do other work. I have lunch. I go for a walk and turn over tumultuous thoughts in my mind. All the while, she flits - just in and out of my consciousness. Hiding in her forest, while her soft giggles tease my ears. She hides like a child.
And then, and then, when I least expect her to arrive, and when I'm least prepared for her, away from my desk, she turns to me and whispers "This is your moment." Inspiration strikes me down with a hammer stoke. And I frantically grab something to make notes with, some implement to try and capture the most precious of all gifts: an idea.
She loves to visit right at the moment when my wife and I are speaking and inevitably, I'm listening to the muse when my wife asks, "are you listening to me?" And the muse giggles. She’ll bring out the best and the worst you can be.
And so, for now, I sit here, forcing my fingers to move, taking a sip of my caffeine, listening to the tinkling of her bells on the wind and the giggles of her laughter and I try to look very serious, hoping, just this once, at the beginning of this day, she'll grace me with an idea now, while I sit at my desk, ready to create.
"So, I write anyway. Uninspired sentences. In fits and starts."
This! Peering into your writing world and recognize things.
Lovely view of your morning and you and your muse. They are so persnickety sometimes. My muse isn't "Always a Woman to me...." He's more of an imp. I am glad you write anyway.