writers_loft | Who is my God?

My muse woke me this morning, frisky as a young calf. She raced about, kicking her heels and bouncing, bunting me with her head. She was quite insistent. "Wake up, lazyhead!" "Get out of bed!" "Move it, babe!" She shoved me out of the bed, half awake and stumbling. I glance at the clock and groan. It's 6:32 am. I've slept 7 hours, maybe less, and my muse wants me to write.

Responding to the demands of my muse, I turn on the computer and dress as I wait for it to boot up. I don't even brush my hair or teeth as I sit down before the computer. I wrote a sentence before my equally frisky husband bounded into the room, horny and wanting to play. Off with the clothes and back to the bedroom I went. I might have objected to the interruption and sent him away, but with children and an similar sexual need burning within me I could not stop myself.

Back to the computer another few sentences and it is 7:11 am. It is time to load the butcher steer onto the trailer. He’ll be dead in an hour. A bullet to the head.

I plan to drive to town today. It’s 8 am and I am dreading the trip. It is strange to hate so much what others envy. I suppose I should feel sad that I am “stuck here in the middle of nowhere,” but the truth is I have a car, I can go anywhere at any time, I am not stuck anywhere. I choose to be the recluse with limited access or contact to people.

Once a month, we drive to the nearest Wal-mart and buy 1 to 3 months worth of groceries. After that, I only drive to the nearest grocery store if I have to and just for the bare essentials. My mother would say it was those awkward, anti-social tendencies I developed as a teen. I think she fears them because she can not understand them. And I am not anti-social, I neither interrupt nor destroy social intercourse. I am neither hostile to the well-being of society nor can I be characterized by deviant behavior. I am, however, awkward and more of a solitary creature, ill at ease within groups of more than two.

I have this feeling that I am unlike other women, or at least their stereotype. I wear little to no make-up. My husband owns more shoes than I do. I buy my favorite style of shirts in bulk, none of them cost more than $5, and all can be worn for working on the ranch. I wear pants with lots of pockets or jeans. I hate shopping. I love all types of fantasy and fiction and their sub-genres. I love violent, action movies and mystery thrillers.

(9 pm)
My muse is calling again. She wants something from me. Something I fear I can not give. She is like a child, loud and demanding, seeking love and approval, always wanting to play.

She has yet to tell me her name. I thought she might be Clio, Urania, Melpomene, Thalia, Terpsichore, Calliope, Erato, Polyhymnia, or Euterpe. But none seem to fit, they are old and she is yet young, too young to be any of these. I guess when she is ready, she will whisper her name into my ear and I will know that it is the name of my muse.

Hesiod once wrote of the muses, “They are all of one mind, their hearts are set upon song and their spirit is free from care. He (She) is happy whom the Muses love. For though a man (woman) has sorrow and grief in his (her) soul, yet when the servant of the Muses sings (or writes, or paints, or tells a story), at once he (she) forgets his (her) dark thoughts and remembers not his (her) troubles. Such is the holy gift of the Muses to men (women).”

It is true for me. When my muse speaks, if I embrace to her fully, she opens the way for me, inspiring my creativity to heights I could not imagine before. The land in open before me, ready to be explored and discover the beauties that abound. The flow of my writing is freer, unrestrained, and honest. The turmoil of my mind is eased and my time of exploration becomes a joy.

But if I ignore her, if I force her pursue and prodded me, than when I came to her, she chastises me for my behavior. Only when I continue to push her aside and ignore her, will she abandon me. But like any lover, as soon as her anger is through and her sulking is finished, we make amends and she forgives me.

She knows me, she understands me, and she realizes the demands upon my time. She must share my time with others, with my husband and my daughters. She calls me and I must go.