I thought at first to pen a tender farewell letter, laden with wistful meanderings and softly bitter laments o'er unrequited love against my cruelly manipulative beast of a Muse. My core is neither soft nor innocent enough to have such leanings, however, and I'm not as heartbroken as I expected to be. Nothing lasts forever, and there may come a time when I will find myself again wrapped warmly in the Muse's powerful embrace and enchanting smiles. For now, I stand on the outside, journal and pen in hand, catching what pitiful scraps I may and doing what little scribbling that I can. Wow, I'm tearing up already. No, not really. Actually, driving home from dinner with the Parentals, I had a few thoughts about my ties to the Muse and how the ties were pretty much gone. I have spoken quite a bit in the past that I am a slave to the written word. Since the summer, I have pretty much given up on writing. All literary projects are stopped for the time being, since Inspiration and I are not in sync at all. Several false starts have gone nowhere, and I gave them up.
These literary projects. I have been in thrall to them since I was 13. Perhaps the Muse was just getting tired of guiding me through this or that story, knowing I have little talent or courage for follow through. This is a new theory, however, and I need time to examine it. Actually, I had another theory that came to mind the other night. Care to hear it? I could possibly be a mimic of some sort where writing is concerned. Throughout my childhood and my teens I read mostly Fantasy. A trilogy of novels (or novellas? Hard to say.) was born from these experiences. Then I started branching out, venturing into Mysteries and books on matters spiritual, as well as scores of classics. From this exploration came a Mystery story that might've gone well if I had not listened to the writer-in-residence for that year. For the last few years, I have been pretty deep in Philosophy and Spirituality, which kindled in me to write some sort of story. This has resulted in numerous false starts (a first draft of the first book is somewhere on my computer, I think) and frustration to spare.
The only literary project I have made much headway on is my Journal Project, where I have been typing my journals out and saving them to file. Someday I will not be able to read my handwriting, so it makes sense. This year or the next I'll be working on transcribing one of my journals from the early 00's. But I digress. I have come to understand that I may not have a whole lot of something inspired, but I can mimic very well. But a snag has risen. I have been reading a variety of genres these days, but nothing I can concentrate upon beyond musings in my diary, so there's little chance for mimicry. I have nothing as a result. This has been my piece on being a mimic and my final thoughts on the Muse. This is not to say that I am done with writing altogether. I still have blogging and my ongoing scribbles in this or that journal. And there may come a time when I have something original and inspired to say. Things happen in cycles, right? Thank you for your time.