She made me write stuff. Dozens of silly poems, and several years of journals. Old words on paper as brittle as I feel , and faded as my dreams.
Old, because one day I finally ignored her. Brittle, for I refused to write. Faded, as I didn't have the time. She kept putting words in my head, but I wouldn't make them solid anymore.
The thoughts, the characters, the stories. They still ricochet around my brain. They invade my dreams. They try to breathe in the dark. They beat at my forehead demanding to be freed.
Suddenly I want to give them life. I want to tell their stories. I want others to know them.
I've forgotten how to make that happen. I've lost the knowledge. I doubt myself. I can't do it.
I've lost my Muse. I catch the occasional glimpse. Under years of disuse. Behind stacks of excuses.
I traded the pens and pencils and crayons for a keyboard. The paper has become a computer screen. I wade through words and punctuation. I try to remember how this is done. I delete and backspace. I walk away. I come back. I read my words out loud. I delete. Retype.
Where is that Muse? She knew how to paint with words. Sprinkle punctuation like glitter. She didn't need spell check. Grammar was innate knowledge to her. She knew how many words were enough and how to stack them.
I used to have a Muse, if only I could find her.
My entry for Writer's Week Writing Contest I used prompt #15.
