okay, here’s the secret

whisper

Writing isn’t a mysterious process, you know. It’s hard work and it’s frustrating and it’s tedious, but not mystical. Not even close. I’ve never been visited by a Muse in my life. Poets, especially, like to think such weirdness is not only possible, but commonplace. Do Santa and the Tooth Fairy drop in, too? Well, far be it from me to burst their balloon.

I failed mythology, to be honest, and wanted to kick myself for taking the class in the first place. Gods and goddesses, my eye. It’s the Twilight Zone with airs. Seriously. Fantastical names (Epimetheus, Thanatos, Dionysus) plus ancient Greek culture equals academic piffle. At least in my opinion. Guess who my muse is. Coffee. Two cream, three sugar. A couple jolts of caffeine set my fuzzy mind astir and imagination takes wing.

Maybe coffee is a magic elixir, it does have a strange and powerful effect, but it’s not the secret. Not my secret, anyway. That honor belongs to the Posts page in my little blog here. The second I paste in a completed draft for publication, my head clears and inspiration floods in. I see those words as if for the first time, in their full and glorious terribleness. What the hell have I done is, invariably, my first thought.

And it’s back to the drawing board I go. This post, for instance, was a hackneyed, worn out apology for lollygagging instead of cranking out new material. The thing stunk to high heaven, so pungent I gagged. Yet I stubbornly refused to admit defeat — I made some edits, added images, polished and tweaked, tightened and revised. I believe it’s called beating a dead horse, in technical terms. I wound up abandoning it there in Posts, where it lies rotting as we speak.

Do you believe in reincarnation? That atrocious piece may yet rise from the dead. Someday. In fact, you can probably count on it. The next time I’m desperate for material and feeling guilty for being such a flipping slug, I’ll surely resurrect the poor, old nag. I’ll convince myself it doesn’t suck that bad and hit the Publish button. Don’t come crying to me when that happens.

You’ve been given plenty of advance warning. Proceed at your own risk, my friend.

gas mask
copyright © 2015 little ittys

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