“Musings on Muses”
I was asked today, by someone I greatly respect as a member of the "trying to get published" writing world, why I hadn't started a book or a collection of essays to attempt to break into the wonderful world of nonfiction. My response, half-wit that it was, went something like this: "I'm disenchanted with the process as a whole and am quite content to sit and stare blankly until my Muse decides to smack me upside the head with a Webster’s Thesaurus."
Funny as it is - I don't know if I quite believe it. Am I really disenchanted? Or am I just burned out from trying to be nice and entertaining all the time - and - if so - is that really such a bad thing? What's wrong with turning a smile unto a world that is so full of cynicism that it can't bend over to tie its own shoes? Worse yet, am I one of those bloated, pompous, self-important people that watch the news just to be able to get the jokes of the late night comediennes?
I'd like to think that I'm not.
I'd like to also think that things like beautiful and inspiring muses do exist - if not just in theory - so as to squish out the anti-muses of self-doubt and self-loathing that we as writers and non-writers share on a daily basis.
I'd also like a pickle. But that's a whole other story entirely.