Right now life is pretty good.

Marriage – cherished and loving – check.

Family – healthy and happy – check.

Work – Smooth if not easy – check.

So, why am I having such difficulty sitting down to write?

Don’t get me wrong. Once I’m actually seated, I don’t have any problems. The imagination still functions and the all-alluring plot line still intrigues and challenges, sucking me into that all absorbing vortex from which I emerge hours later to see, with considerable surprise, the distance time has traveled in my absence.

No, it’s getting seated and tuned in that is lately problematic. And it isn’t anyone’s fault but mine. The house has been especially quiet recently, with few distractions. But still, I find reasons, which, if I allow it, will keep me from writing at all. Should I go shopping or should I write? A movie would be fun. The laundry really needs to get done (Not the valid excuse it might appear. I get some of my best work done between loads.) Then there’s that table runner I wanted to quilt. Do I have time for a mani-pedi today?

Why do I have such a strong inclination to run from the activity I love best out of all possible choices? (Family time excluded, of course.) Maybe because the muse does pull me in completely and is so reluctant to let go. Maybe because I know that, once I relinquish my hold, she won’t turn loose until my back cramps and my fingers scream in protest; and I won’t mind. In fact, the entire house falling in, so long as it didn’t crush my computer or myself in the process, would elicit no more from me than an irritated grumble as I brushed the plaster dust from my keyboard. There are times when the process so absorbs me that I am unaware of anything outside my narrowed range of perception. I become deaf, peripherally blind and nearly impervious to physical discomfort; and I like it. When my wonderful husband is kind enough to bring me water or lunch, I have to restrain myself from growling at him.

I know, I’ve just described an addiction, but I can’t bring myself to find it even mildly disturbing. I am happiest when I’m writing. No apologies, very few qualifications.

When are you happiest?

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5 thoughts on “Muse Rag

    1. Exactly my point. AND then there’s the whole, “I like it,” factor. I mean, aside from the annoying side effects, I really enjoy my writing addiction. Now, if I can just get paid for it…

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  1. I’ve been finding that my meditation practice and writing are more similar than I used to think. If I’m finding excuses to do either, it’s because there is something that is waiting to be seen that I don’t want to.

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