
The Muse Chronicles: 1
365 Writing Challenge, Day 42
I went to see the Muse today. I had heard she set up shop in the basement of the old library on Holt Street. If anyone could help me break through this creative constipation, it would be her, or him—not too clear on the gender.
The library’s angular windows and walls stood in homage to the decade when it was built. Inside, floors collided between stairwells building a labyrinth of false corridors.
It took me too long to find the Muse. By the time I got there, an “out to lunch” sign hung on the gnarled, brown, wood desk. But, I refused to give up. I had to see the Muse. So, I waited, taking a seat on one of the old, leather chairs hidden between the stacks. I could still see her desk from my perch, framed by rows of bookcases.
I don’t know exactly how long I waited, but it was a long enough duration that a librarian walked by me twice to “shush” me. The forced exhalation echoed through the empty floor as if he had yelled through a megaphone.
Finally, she appeared and didn’t look at all like what I expected. A mop of graying, curly brown hair topped her small angular face. She wore leather saddle shoes and a floral blouse that had long since lost its bloom. She fumbled in her purse, which looked more like a doctor’s bag, for her reading glasses. With the simple specs placed on her face, she settled into the desk that dwarfed her diminutive frame. She neatly aligned a stack of papers on the desk and then folded her hands on top of it. She turned the “out to lunch” sign so that it read “The Muse Is In.”
I waited, too anxious to appear without a direct invitation. She tilted her head down slightly and peered at me over her frames.
“Well, are you coming to speak with me? Or do you prefer to continue waiting?” she asked.
I stood quickly, practically tripping over my feet as I walked to her. When I came to her desk, I respectfully pulled out the chair across from her and sat down with as much calm as I could muster.
“Thank you so much for seeing me today,” I said. “I desperately need your help.”
“What seems to be the problem?”
I sighed. Where should I begin?
“I’m blocked. I don’t know what to write. When I do manage to, barely a few thoughts sputter from my mind onto the paper.”
“What’s the source of the blockage?” she asked.
“Well, I was hoping you could tell me…”
She paused before giving her diagnosis.
“It could be any number of ailments: exhaustion, persistent trauma, avoidance … any of those really. Do you feel as if you are hiding from yourself?”
I paused, thinking about her question. After a long while, I nodded.
“Yes.”
“Well, then I cannot help you yet,” she said. “Until you confront yourself, you will continue to hide from your true inspiration.”
“How can I do that?” I asked.
This post is part of my 365 Fiction Writing Challenge. Read my self-imposed rules and other posts here.
Click here for yesterday’s post: Those Clinging Thoughts
Click here for tomorrow’s post: The Muse Chronicles - 2
