I have writer’s block. I’m staring at a blank screen, unable to think of another word.
Thinking in my head, I think and contemplate, trying to find the source of my trouble. It was then that I realized that my muse was gone.
Then it made perfect sense. This was why I was unable to churn beautiful words. To thrive on the page and type like there’s no tomorrow. She left me, and has gone into hiding.
Immediately, I get up from my seat to look for her. If I could see my muse right now, I could explain to you what she looked like. How she sounds, thinks, tastes and smells.
Yes. My muse has a distinct smell. One that I will explain if I can find her.
My search begins in the house. I look everywhere. She is not in the house.
I then go out to the car, looking by the driver’s seat. She is not in the car.
I then go for a drive, and enter the city. I drive up and down every place that I have seen her before. She is not in the city.
Oh, my beautiful muse! My vixen of creativity that has brought into formation great mirth and creativity flowing through my veins. Where are you?
I look around the supermarket. She is not in the supermarket.
I then go to the library. Surely she is here! Hiding among the books. The numerous volumes and endless words. This is where most muses like to hide.
But not mine. Not today. I looked everywhere in the library. She is not in the library.
Being totally discouraged, I drive home. My muse cannot be found anywhere. My cure for writer’s block will not be found today. How can I be a geyser of creativity, gushing with words without my beautiful muse to guide me? She is a maiden of imagination, but alas, she is nowhere to be found.
Entering the brink of depression, I walk down the hallway. I climbed into my melancholy state, touting it well, wearing the emotion like a suit.
Just as I was beginning to feast on sadness, I entered my room. There my muse sat, as if she was waiting for me.
She sat in my thinking chair, a chair that I often used to think of good ideas. Oh, my muse! I am now drenched with happiness.
How shall I explain her to you? If you were to stare at her, you would be completely under her spell. The very sight of her puts me into a creative trance. And if you stare at her long enough, you will see everything that is inside her. An entire sea of unformed characters. Yes. She is the one who makes them. Who calls them all into existence.
And that is only the beginning of her features. Entire worlds exist inside of her. Worlds ready to be unleashed in the form of words and ink. I have seen medieval countrysides, beautiful mountain valleys, breathtaking cities and seemingly endless beaches inside of her. She is clothed with creativity, a colorful tapestry that adorns her body. Her colorful gown is stained with these beautiful worlds. The void of formless characters is clearly visible in her eyes.
I glanced at my muse, staring at her with great delight. She is healthy. The vibrant colors are a clear indication of this.
Believe me. I have seen my muse when she was sick. During that time, she was a pale shade of gray. A dull and sickly figure. Frail and weak. Her worlds are not very exciting or colorful. This is all you need to know about her, as this is a clearly neglected muse that has not been nourished properly.
My muse speaks to me. Her voice is a symphony of many voices, each one sounding different. Each voice is a different character, with a different personality. Her voice is soft and velvety. Sweet like honey. I quietly listen to her words, devouring each one as I hear them. It was a quiet invitation. It was a plea of urgency. I nodded in agreement as I listened.
Her smell is breathtaking. Imagine every wonderful scent that you have ever smelled before. The smell is almost impossible for me to describe. When I am around her, I smell roses, apples, lavender, ginger, jasmine and various aloes and perfumes. Every time I’m around her, I smell a new fragrance. As the smells blend together, it is hard to determine what the actual smell is. To sum it up, it is the smell of creativity. The smell of beauty.
Listening to my muse, I approach her. She smiles as I grab her. I hoist her up and thrust her directly into my head.
Upon impact, my muse dissolves into my head. She has become a mist, that ignites into a radiant light. The bright mist is absorbed into my brain.
Full of joy and creativity, I run downstairs to the den, where the blank computer screen was. Using the muse that is now alive in me, I begin to compose beautiful words, successfully outlining a tale like no other. The tale is the journey to find my muse. Her creativity is what helped make this tale. The finding of her and the description of her all culminating into a perfect fusion of man and creativity.
The union is complete, as is this tale.
To all writers who struggle trying to find your muse, I hope this encourages you all. And, if you are a lady, imagine the muse in the opposite gender. Whoever you are, the muse can be found. Find that muse and create. You most certainly will.
©2012 K. L. Walker