the muse is not happy

my muse is tired of beating me over the head with words.

she sits in her darkened corner, waiting for me to shine a light upon her, but at this moment she’s almost resigned to her place, she can tell that now is not the best time to make herself known and yet, i can see her tapping her foot to a rhythm that can no longer find its rhyme, i can see her fingers twitching every time i turn on my computer, and she heaves a great sigh of derision when i go on-line instead of powering up microsoft word.

she looks at me in mild astonishment, and her silent thoughts come as clearly to my mind as if she had shouted them: ‘what the hell are you doing?! nobody cares what you’re making for dinner! get the fuck off facebook and work on the damn story!'

it's possible that she wouldn't be so upset if i hadn't promised her that i'd be hers for the past week and a half. at the time my intentions were clear, and at one point my thoughts were in the right place, i even thought to myself: for the next two weeks i am the muse's bitch. i will do exactly what she says, when she says, and when she tells me to go jump off of a bridge, my only reply will be: which one?

sadly, regrettably, these days have not gone as planned. i am not finding new and interesting ways to connect scenes, create flawless plot lines, or build stronger characters. i am, however, finding new and interesting ways to bemoan our new status quo, flawlessly building wall upon wall of fault lines that can tumble into meaningless rubble by a mere glance or even a stray comment, and the only strength i can find within this time is that these events are building me into a stronger character. but i do wonder, not for the first time, do i need to be stronger? haven't i gone through enough? you mean there's more shit i need to shovel? damn-it! i thought i was done with this crap!