Sometimes I sit and stare at my laptop screen or my blank notebook and wait for the muse to strike. I dabble. I squirm. I stare into space. I wait, and wait, and wait.
I’ve often thought about what form my muse might take. Usually I imagine her in typical Greek style: a beautiful woman with thick eyelashes and curves, her body draped with silks and her lips whispering the words I write. I imagine her telling me the secrets of the stars and giving me the ability to articulate these secrets into words that flow with the same beauty a thunderstorm possesses as it rolls into the depths of a city. Terrifying. Beautiful. Striking. Perfect.
The reality of it is that my muse never comes – not in the way I imagine her to come, anyway. She does not stand by my shoulder whispering into my ear. She does not appear before me in shimmering light. She does not wake me from my sleep and urge me into action.
Instead, my muse is quite subtle. Quiet yet firm, she is a voice in my head. She whispers what if and tells me stories. She urges me to write and gets upset when I don’t.
And when I think of all the voices in my head (just accept that these voices are generally constructive and I’m not a danger to society) I think of the tone they have, the words they use … Because of all the voices in my head, my muse’s is the only voice who is truly like my own. My muse’s form is me, and her words are not whispered into my ear, they’re created by my thoughts, spoken with my voice, constructed by my hands.
I can exhaust myself chasing my muse. Or I can realise that she’s been with me this whole time.