Some days it’s easy. The cracking open and carving out. Like my muse is dropping by for a visit, and bringing me a cup of tea. “I apologize for the mess,” I say, clearing a place at the table amidst the stack of papers with a single sentence scribbled into the margins. “No, no, don’t worry about it!” she waves me off, and points to a pen and a notepad. I need them on those days.
Other days she’s tired. I have a headache. We don’t connect at the right place at the right time. I’m kicking and screaming, because it’s no longer good enough to say “Better luck next time,” or “It’s a really busy time right now, let’s reschedule for next week,” because days stretch into weeks and weeks become months which turn into years. And I refuse to end up sitting at a kitchen table surrounded by bills and take-out containers and a dirty coffee cup or three with a TV in the background that rattles when a train passes under my apartment, staring at the book reviews in the Times and thinking, “Heh. Remember when I wanted to be a writer? That worked out about as well as ballet, didn’t it?”
And the only person to blame would be me.
I have no delusions of fame and fortune. But I do have a promise to keep, and a responsibility not to let another dream fall through the cracks of “I’m tired”, “I’m depressed”, “I’m lonely”.
So, Muse. I’m making a place at the table for you. We have some catching up to do.