A glimpse at my muses, and I'm not a whole human being if I can't (every now and then) get some writing done.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Today, with the rain and the dark, with Christmas done and the next big cooking event a day or two off, I walked past the piles of others' books that have accumulated here the past few weeks, ignored client work, didn't dust, and slipped inside my office. My muses live here—a fabric doll from Asheville, a mask from San Miguel, a collection of painted faces from Venice, an African giraffe, an old spinning wheel, my books of poems, a box from Tamra. My Florence novel, half written in a fury since October, has been frozen on my desktop since early December.
The moment I reentered that fictional space, my heart stopped doing that anxious amusement-park thing that it does. I didn't write much; I couldn't. I remembered, however. That was enough.