Absent Muse.

There I was, as I used to do every morning for the last two weeks, sitting in front of my computer with my cat on my lap, a blank stare and not a single word written. The deadline was near, and I needed to deliver something, the pale page looked back at me, reminding me thatI had no ideas, or, as it would be better to say, no inspiration. Last semester, I had become kind of famous at the university after I won the poetry contest and three of my poems were published in the university paper. Some critics even called my work “astonishing” and currently, they had asked for more. Later, the school found an editor, and they intended to publish a whole book with the best works of the students, they said that we, the students, have “potential”.

Now I was requested to write several poems to be included in the book, at least five, they said. However, at this point it was harder, since they expected more from me, they expected better poems that the previous ones, they expected something more than good, perhaps even more than astonishing. I had promised I would write new poems but since I did, nothing came out of my head. I was starting to worry; I did not know what I should do to start writing again.

People use to think that we, writers, are some sort of words machines, that we could produce whole books like the easiest thing to do, that writing just comes naturally, like a chef, who could prepare a delicious dish in no time. People also think that we are gifted, that our minds are something marvelous creating art all the time. If I had already written some decent pieces of art, they just think I could write another one in the blink of an eye. But writing is a complex process, which needs dedication, time, silence, will… it is even difficult to describe, because it is different for every person, triggered by diverse aspects, situations, emotions… a process of growth, in which a writer becomes a better artist only by writing. Nevertheless, inspiration is tricky; sometimes the writer must chase it, corner it, until it is captured. Inspiration is not always there, and perhaps writers have to create a muse to open areas to explore and bring inspiration to the paper every time they plan to produce new pieces.

The truth is, that when I wrote those poems to participate in the contest, I was in another time of my life, a difficult time where I had that ability to capture my feelings in a piece of paper because my muse was sadness and sorrow. Somehow, my life is different now, I overcame those painful experiences and I am in a state of neutrality, neither sad nor happy, sometimes I even think I have no feelings left, for anything. I do not know if this unconscious state is good or bad, but it is affecting my performance as a writer, and I cannot allow that to happen.

I started to read about techniques to inspire myself and get the work done. These readings included some rituals, such as buying a calendar and schedule the right hour to write, accommodate a space in the house just for writing, walk around the house just thinking and generating ideas for a while every day, and conversing with myself about anything and run with it, and so on. I tried it all for several days. I would not lie, I did start writing, but inspiration had not yet arrived, there were just nonsense words with no meaning and no musicality. I felt a little disappointed; this new work was not as good to be printed in the school book. Did I just lose my muse forever? If I did, I needed to find a new one as soon as possible.

Two days before deadline, as a manner of getting back my inspiration, I reread the poems from the previous contest. I realized that I could not call myself a poet yet, no matter what the school judges might think. Those pieces were not astonishing, but there was something real in those poems that made me sad just by remembering what they used to reflect and I felt relieved that it was over. Being relieved is close to being happy, so I finally had something to start from.

I went to bed that day with a lot in my head. I did not want my strategy to be asking for a little more time or letting the board know that I did not finish. I did have written something, it would be it, just a little unsatisfactory but better than nothing. They would only know that I really tried.

Suddenly, in the middle of the night, my cat’s purr woke me up. She was looking for warmth under my blanket, so I took her in, but I was sleepless as a consequence. Surprisingly, it happened; an idea just came to mind, and I had my eyes like saucers. I jumped out of bed and turn my computer on. My muse, whatever it was, just sparkled as I typed. A whirlpool of emotions started to construct whole sentences than turned into beautiful poems about sadness, despair, hatred, impartiality, acceptance, relief, contentment; subjectivity, objectivity… nothing and everything at the same time. Three hours later I was done. Out of the blue, ten poems emerged in front of me, which of course, were only drafts that needed to be refined until becoming the final product, but all the ideas were portrayed, inspiration had taken its time, but it finally arrived.

The following day, and one day before deadline, I was calm, not even tired, it was time to polish the new creations and choose the best ones that would appear in the students’ book of literature. I was delighted with the results, but still cannot understand what was blocking me before. I guess that is how inspiration works sometimes.