timwburke

Since finishing the most recent novel, I’ve been waiting for my muse. I’ve been going to our old familiar places. Maintaining our usual appointments at Panara every day before my evening shift. Playing our favorite songs and watching our old favorite movies. Story anthologies lay in drifts around my living room. She ain’t showing up.

I think the expectation of the releases this year might be intimidating her a little. The progress I’ve made in counseling has soothed her ferocity. Getting older and watching friends and family pass has dismayed her.

There is no set plotline for one’s life. It is not going to All Work Out. There is no Resolution, no Affirmation, or Complete Understanding. So what does she do, and why?

In years past, I would have been distressed. I would have torn into my trunk stories to find the shining gold that had to — JUST HAD TO — be in them. Now, I realize that gold comes from being kind to myself.

At the moment, nothing is grabbing me. Writing prompts never worked well for me. Every short story I read seems disjointed or cliched or incomplete. These things have been the case for months, but with the novel to distract me, they hadn’t been a problem.

And it’s the holidays, of course. I’m building stronger definitions within my family and allowing people to be closer. I’m glad to have a new job that’s less boggling with better pay.

I’m easing up on myself and this is good all the way around. If she comes back, great! If not, I will manage. It won’t be an either-or proposition; my muse may feel differently next time with a healthier purpose.

Anyway, if you’re stuck, take a walk. Do something nice for yourself. Ask somebody how they are doing.