I have to say—I truly enjoy the ability to put my thoughts into words … words that might actually become meaningful to those who read them. But I also must admit that I am a novice, a creative part-timer … and I can’t always summon the creative flow like truly talented writers. For many, it’s as simple as hailing a cab—they step off the curb, throw their arm in the air and *poof* a great idea just pulls right up beside them. Not so much for me. My creative muse falls more in the category of, well, let’s say, a deadbeat dad. Oh, he loves me all right, he’s just not what you’d call, you know, reliable. He’ll disappear without a trace for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. Not a call, not a postcard, nothing.
Then suddenly, just when I’m trying to actually picture the make and model of the truck that has surely mown him down, he’ll show up on my doorstep—with a wily smile, a fistful of candy bars, and a lot of promises which are mostly variations of, “I’ll never stay away that long again.” I’m not sure I believe him, of course, but he’s a charmer, my muse, so I let him in. We sit for awhile. We catch up. He astounds me with stories of all the places he’s been and people he’s seen since we spoke last. I park myself at his feet, entranced by his tales, and gorge myself on his chocolate apologies. And for that time, all is forgiven. His presence is a gift.
But then, at the very moment I get up to wash my hands or answer the phone or take a pee—Wham!—I hear that screen door slam and he is gone again. I run to the window and I see him, just the outline of him, really, practically jogging now, down the front path into the twilight ... his hands stuffed in his pockets…his steps swift. Sometimes he’ll call over his shoulder, “Just going to grab a pack of smokes, honey…be back in an hour!” But we both know he’s lying. He’ll be back when he’s damned good and ready. And not a moment before. (Although I actually prefer to think of his hastened departures an answer to his free spirited mission to gather more material. See, it’s all about spin).
Anyway, my point, I suppose, is that the unscheduled comings and goings of my creative muse are a lot like happiness itself. The way I see it, though, the comfort is found in knowing that he always does come back. Sometime he stays longer, sometimes it feels more like a drive-by, but he never forgets about me entirely. I’m grateful for that.
My other point is that (for me) life is about learning to manage the in-betweens—without becoming cynical. I fully expect to hear that screen door slam, but I also know that eventually I’ll hear that familiar knock … and there my deadbeat dad of a creative muse will be. His clothes will be rumpled and he’ll probably need a shave, but he’ll be chock full of new and different stories about his latest and greatest adventures and maybe this time, if I’m lucky, he’ll bring me a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. And I’ll always, always invite him in.
