On this cold and windy night, I sit in the bedroom, MacBook in my lap, snoring dog at my side, and listen to the wind rattle the windows and doors around our beach house. I half-heartedly listen to Oprah banter with an overly chatty Steven Tyler. Although the heater's on, invisible, icy fingers reach through the imperfections of the structure, and play with my shoulders and neck. The wind is tonight's muse, as its intermittent chill reminds me that I'm alive. I nestle under the comforter, and feel the urge to write, for no one but myself.
Recently, for any number of reasons, I believed that I lost "my muse," my motivation, my ability to express myself through writing. Uncertainty and depression, and a half-dozen other little monsters that look for the slightest cues to creep in, take over, and steal away confidence have kept me silent, unable to do what I've always done best...write.
But, tonight...
As the wind shakes the fragile vines that adorn the yard, and whistles through the vents of the house (blowing off the occasional shingle), I feel the words returning, as well as my desire to capture them on a page. Perhaps, that's enough for now, to simply get down a few thoughts, and move on.
Rest well on this cold and windy night...and listen for the muse.
Recently, for any number of reasons, I believed that I lost "my muse," my motivation, my ability to express myself through writing. Uncertainty and depression, and a half-dozen other little monsters that look for the slightest cues to creep in, take over, and steal away confidence have kept me silent, unable to do what I've always done best...write.
But, tonight...
As the wind shakes the fragile vines that adorn the yard, and whistles through the vents of the house (blowing off the occasional shingle), I feel the words returning, as well as my desire to capture them on a page. Perhaps, that's enough for now, to simply get down a few thoughts, and move on.
Rest well on this cold and windy night...and listen for the muse.
