While wearing my tinfoil writer’s hat, I search for inspiration constantly. As evidenced by the blog droughts experienced here, sometimes there’s not a whole lot of inspiration to be found. I struggle with the idea of putting my own, personal spin on things like sweeping the floor or the never-ending struggle to time my shower for the perfect amount of hot water in the hizzy.

Y’all don’t want to hear that. I know it, you know it, let’s move on.

But, as a writer, or artist, or creative being of supreme magnificence, sometimes, its the classic method that works best. That ever-flowing well of emotional turmoil, delight and utter bewilderment. The pain, the joy, the agony… the feet. Yep… The Muse.

Having been through the spin cycle of platonic and non-platonic romance a few thousand times, I’m not only not immune to the flow that comes from an exciting new person in my life, but I also know the difference in my own writing. The inspiration, the motivation, the pure, raw emotion that soaks through the entire process, from initial meeting to heart-wrenching ending is nothing if not a delectable exercise in human expression.

YUM.

I kind of miss that roller coaster. I’m also terrified of it, but, evidently, I’m supposed to succumb until I’m numb. Wheeee!

Head. Arms. Inside Ride. All Times.

So, I’m half-assed hunting muses (like the dogs they are!). Much like when I eat nothing but hummus for months, and then tire of its sameness… that kind of hunt. I’m not making this more than it is, because, well, this area of life isn’t my greatest triumph. I’ve mulled this over for months, really. I was even encouraged by a new friend, recently, to jump back into that world, for real. No pretending, no “just computer/text” interaction (chatting only, pervs, jeebus!)… no business excuse for meeting people, but really get myself “out there” and “see what’s possible” – blah blah blah.  I’m a lemming.

Muse or a Mommy Club… pick your poison (what’s behind curtain #3, Bob?). Ahem.

One of my favorite (and maybe overused) quotes from Tom Robbins is:

There is only one serious question. And that question is: ‘Who knows how to make love stay?’

Well, not me, obviously. But, really, I get the rationale, and while that shit does hurt and bleed like a, um, bleeding thing, there’s an element of adventure, a game, if you will. It sure is a whole lot of fun jumping through those hoops and cuddling under those covers before reality rears its ugly head and you’re staring straight at some sort of demon.

…and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

That, by the way, was not Tom Robbins. I just did a quote mashup. Nietzsche and Robbins. Heh.

My friends, it is with great hesitance and lots of wine ahead of me, I say, “Bring on the Muse!”

Because, at least, it makes for good blogging.

P.S. It would also be nice to just have fun with someone again. I’m not above admitting that my “Princess in a Tower” act is getting a little old, even for me.