It is difficult to define where my Muse lives, sometimes it is on my shoulders, sometimes it is in my heart, sometimes the identity of my muse is confused with the identity of others – and sometimes she just appears out of nowhere when I least expect her.
She is definitely a “her” I have decided, and she has a soft Irish brogue, which lulls me into believing that I can achieve anything. Her brogue is so soft that sometimes I have problems hearing her over the clatter and toxic chatter of everyday living.
Today my muse has visited, she has allowed me gentle time to think and exercise my imagination. Not too much – the imagination has been corralled for so long now, it has almost forgotten how to run, its heels hobbled by guilt and other peoples imposing agendas.
I have organised myself for class tomorrow, have considered how I am going to frame the exercises. How I am going to encourage others to find and identify “their” muse. But what I must say is this – you find her hidden in the most unusual of places.
This week she has been in “his” fridge. Oh I was so cross with the mess, and the upset earlier in the week – that along with the ironing and “oh joy” discussing our world on a bleak tired night in the middle of the week, and then when I came to sit and write the first page of my new best-selling – dust covered novel - in the Undiscovered Authors day yesterday at the library – I wrote about this insult to my world and sensibilities… Wow – no experience is wasted is it. As I sat on my haunches and surveyed the world – except it wasn’t me it was Sarah – bless her – and I have a funny feeling she is going to give Philip a run for his money. Except I don’t know because I haven’t written that bit yet !!
No experience is ever wasted, however insignificant, or at the time so distressing you really don’t want to remember it again – write it down – get it out there, flesh it up later – or not – the choice is your own, as yesterdays was mine.