I’m listening to Black Coffee by Sarah Vaughan. Ms. Vaughan can croon. She’s singing my life, filled with late nights and restlessness. She sings of the shadows on the walls, coffee and nicotine, all there to keep her awake–or soothe her blues while she waits for her baby.
My baby is my muse. He comes and goes like a disinterested lover, always wavering, never steady. I’ve been cranking out some interesting work for my newsletter and my novel these past few days. But the work seems to lack something that I can’t put my finger on. There is a spirit that’s absent. Maybe it is my muse, my disinterested muse who watches me from a distance, wondering what I’m writing and how I plan to go on without him. Although the life that was once there in my work is faint, I will plow forward, recognizing that I can make it better–tomorrow. With perseverance and resolve, I can resuscitate my crude manuscript. All that’s required is patience and care, and a strong desire to create the best work possible.
I will keep writing. And hope he decides to join me–but I will not wait. I grab a cup of coffee, a beverage not part of my daily routine. I need the change today. I need this rush that I haven’t had in maybe 2 years to keep me alert. Sleep cannot interrupt my flow, a flow I have decided will go on without my beloved muse. Maybe he will become jealous and join me. Maybe. Until then, I write, never losing focus–because there is a reward at the end of the tunnel, at the base of the rainbow. My pot of gold will be my finished novel and I cannot allow myself to be distracted by an absent and disinterested muse.
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