As a child, the gift of creating meaningful sentences set me apart from the crowd of students during standardized tests. This particular talent also set me up for some light teasing since it was applied to electives such as yearbook and journalism. I had an early realization of what my calling in life would be and the experience was a liberating one.
I have the soul of a writer. I see words and phrases like bubbles floating through the air. I daze out in the middle of conversations and conjure up an alternate universe or ending. I create characters out of inanimate objects and supply a plot for their stage play. From the moment I open my eyes to the late hour I actually lay my head down, writing consumes my every waking moment and possibly my dreams.
My condition could be likened to an addiction for when I go long periods of time without writing, my personality changes and my mood darkens. I’m not interested in anything about the outside world until I get some words down on paper. Don’t talk to me about your problems because not writing is bigger than the drama you’re representing. I’ll quickly tune you out and retreat to my world of words and phrases.
It takes a special person to be in a relationship with a writer. It takes patience, perserverence and understanding. It takes accepting that writing is the other woman and your partner is constantly cheating on you. It takes believing in the writer you’ve fallen in love with and helping them through the tough times of writer’s block.
My soul requires writing and thankfully, my fiancee realizes she fell in love with a writer. She gives me the space I need to stretch my literary wings and will even provide the necessary motivation with a well-turned demand, i.e. “Get in there and finish my story!” Then again, she is a sapiosexual so it was probably easy for her to understand the inner workings of my brain.
I’m unable to schedule creative writing. An attempt to adhere to a writing itinerary is made every week since I first put pen to paper. Since I obviously have bills to pay and actually have to work for a living, I use Google Calendar which syncs across three of my electronic devices. I set up a specific time for creative writing on certain days and note the project I want to complete. The excitement of being organized overtakes me as I promise myself for the umpteenth time to follow a strict writing timetable. The allotted time arrives. I sit down at my desk and flip open my notebook. Nothing happens.
Apparently, my Muse takes a coffee break. So I try to jumpstart her by typing up stories I’ve already written out but my Muse is such a heifer, she still fails to show up. Sexy music and then a nice movie in the background may entice her or it may not. In a moment of frustration, I’ll succumb to an online game and at least twenty minutes of my precious time is suddenly wasted. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
A lingering thought
I think it’s my formal training. I have an English degree with a concentration in writing. I spent most of my college years studying the masters of the craft and wishing I could be just like them. I was taught to write by first creating an outline. To this day, I can’t write one sentence of a story without writing out an outline first. This habit annoys me. This could also be the reason I have never responded well to creative writing prompts.
Instead, my Muse shows up while I’m driving or listening to someone’s funny anecdote. I have a digital recorder but my words don’t flow while I’m concentrating on driving. Pulling out pen and paper during a conversation is a bit rude, although I’m seriously considering that in the future. I wait until I get home but then I’m confronted with every chore I need to complete before bedtime. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
This brings me to my two-day respite from the corporate world. We all know the weekend only means the responsibilities at your place of employment is given a break. Home responsibilities take center stage. I write a few sentences and then I remember laundry needs to be done. A few sentences more and the dishes in the sink stare back at me as I pass through the kitchen. All the while, my Muse mocks me, slowly sipping her lazy cup of coffee. I envy those past writers and artists who could depend on a rich patron. Their only purpose was to live life and create beautiful works of art for the enrichment of humanity.
I don’t believe in resolutions and even though a schedule would help immensely, I’m not continuing the torture of trying to adhere to one. I’ll succumb to her feminine wiles and accept the inevitable. My Muse is definitely in charge of my creative genius and maybe one day, she’ll let me win one.