Call it “the muse”. Call it “the writing that has a mind of its own”. When you’re a writer, and you know that you must write to have any kind of life or sanity at all, you satisfy the muse in any way you can. You feed it bits of yourself, and, like someone once said, occasionally you sit down at the page, open up a vein, and let the blood flow.
Sometimes there are experiences we have that we just KNOW have to be written about (or painted, or danced – whichever art the muse demands of you). Sometimes it’s enough to write about it in your journal, but other times the journal is not big enough for what needs to be said.
I’ve been fighting with the muse lately. It’s asking for more of me than I want to give. It’s hard to explain, but there are pieces of me that are still well secured behind closet doors and I don’t want to let them out. But there’s a faint clawing at the doors of that closet lately, and I’m afraid I must open it soon.
I know this post doesn’t make much sense, but I felt like writing it anyway. Sometimes it’s easy to write, when you can hold the words at arm’s length and pretend they are only lightly attached to who you are. Other times, it’s wretchedly painful, when the words tear open your soul and reveal all the dark places you’ve kept hidden.
I’ve started writing a piece that is the hardest thing I have ever written. It’s about an intensely personal and painful experience, and I have no idea if it will ever surface. For some reason, I need to write it. So far, it’s called “My Trip to Crazy Town”, and by that title, some of you who know me fairly intimately may know about the day the title references. It seems the muse won’t let me shake the need to let this surface.
Feel free to ignore this post until I make more sense again.