Member-only story
The Thing About Muses
Confess? Perhaps.
Let me sit back and muse.
Oh, yes, that’s a pun — isn’t it? Bear with me.
I’m trying so hard to be more than stories spun up in the cage of a girl, but it’s difficult.
I let the words spin and spin and spin. Stories. Poems. Essays.
Spin, spin, spin.
Like a web I’m weaving as if I’m a spider witch in a hovel. Isn’t that a fanciful thought?
Wait. I’m letting the strands get away from me. Forgive me. I’m too fanciful for my own good sometimes.
Lately I’ve been thinking about muses. Or, rather, the origins of my inspiration. The seeds that come to me when I am at my lowest.
Is that strange? Perhaps I am experiencing an existential crisis and just don’t realize it.
I sit with my laptop on mornings like these and wonder what I’m meant for. I take my threads of plot, the fancies of characters, and the fabric of prose — and I run with them. I try to make them speak what I feel are truths of the world. Not necessarily my truths. (No matter what anyone believes, I don’t do self-insert stories. That’s just a line I won’t cross with my stories.)
But at the end of the day I wonder why I’m here, persisting with words.
