Lost

Lost

I should have finished writing this book months ago because writing things that really happened is much easier for me than inventing compelling prose drawn entirely from the depths of my imagination. The only difficulty should have been cleverly masking reality in a thin veil of fiction to keep the real characters from quickly recognizing their counterparts on my pages. All the same, I've struggled at times and for a while I couldn't figure out why. The story is always on the surface of my psyche, waiting to be told but on so many nights I just couldn't write. I wasn't able to pen the words with any semblance of consistency. Recently, I've finally figured out what's wrong. Something is missing and I'm mad at myself for not sensing what was lacking sooner.

I always sentence myself to solitary confinement when I write. Even if I'm scribbling chapters in my notebooks with people's bodies pressed in around me in the confines of a crowded subway car, I find a way to block out the rest of the world. It always feels like I'm holding my breath underwater. The problem is that I haven't been coming up for air and I've been running the risk of drowning. I worry too much about whether or not people will understand or appreciate this book in the same way they did with the other books I've written. I question every chapter, sentence, paragraph and word. I'm trapped underneath the waves of self-doubt even though I shouldn't be. Finally I've decided that the key to my problem is that I'm missing my muse. I've pushed this reality to the back of my mind, over and over again. I've done everything to tell myself that the idea of needing a muse is just a silly notion conjured up by my overactive, romanticized writer's mind. Of course, as is the case with a lot of things, I've been wrong to ignore this.

Who else but a muse is going to motivate the ink to flow from my pen at the proper pace to carefully put the right words in the proper places? Only a muse is going to inspire the concentration it takes to scribe the things I need to say, exactly the way I meant to say them. Only a muse's tears on the pages that were meant to be sad can let me know if I'm getting it right. Who else is going to let me know when I don't have the right vibe or complain when I've taken the story completely off track? In the end, who else is going to be brutally honest, not to be cruel but because they expect the best from you? The problem is that not just any muse will do. It makes me sit back and wonder if I need you and if that's true………

*** Regardless of the struggle...the show goes on and I need to finish...sooner than later.***