I take a shower with my muse every morning. Actually, he's too much of a gentleman to follow me into the tub, at that time of day at least. He leans against the sink, and speaks through the mist in a whisper of words that blend with the shush of the water, but I hear him clearly through the shower's white noise. I listen, still half asleep, while water rinses last night's dreams down the drain in shampoo swirls.
The best thing about my muse is that he knows when to be quiet. He lets me ramble; he grants me my voice. And I chat non-stop-- internal chat, not spoken words-- rambling on about this and that, my feelings, my thoughts, my confusions, my joys. When he particularly likes something, he prods me in a gentle muse-like manner, "Remember that. That's good." So I repeat it, and embellish it while my muse nods in the fog.
I turn off the water, wrap in a towel and give my muse a great big morning smooch. He's good to me; I need him.
Then I put him on hold. It's life as usual. My day job begins, and continues in non-stop hustle and bustle until the final bell rings and the kids board the busses to go home. I head home too, and it's time to write. But it's still just another job.
For most of the time my muse takes a snooze. Ho, hum. Reporting a Selectmen's meeting is not his thing. Yawn. Am I still working on the explanation of the library's budget? Wake me when you finish the Garden Club piece, he says. I let him sleep. I don't need him yet. I can handle the statistics and small town politics. I can do the dirty work.
I know in the morning he'll relax in the steam while I wash my hair. He'll feed me my lead for the library story, a perfect blend of books and budget. He'll give me a phrase to make the Garden Club piece bloom. Then he'll fill me with ideas that I'll save for the weekend when I'm free to write what strikes my fancy. Just for the fun of it. Just for me-- and my muse.
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