Dear Sharon: An open letter to a muse
Dear Sharon,
So here we are. Ever since you left, I haven’t had a single, fresh idea of my own. I can’t even find proper writing tools in this snowglobe of a house, which explains why I’m scribbling this letter in pink marker on the back of a Wild Things color sheet from the library. That is how bad things have gotten between us. So let’s talk. (Come closer!)
Oh, you have somewhere to be? I get it.
I see you out there, speeding through the woods across the street, blowing your pouty whistle to rub in my face that you are moving forward…without me.
I hear you right this instant — the whole neighborhood hears you too, by the way — whining about how I’m not doing my part to woo you, that I’ve been distracted by a four-month Netflix binge and what the world is doing on Twitter and untouched stacks of overdue library books.
In my defense, I’ve read all the picture books, several times, at least. I read Oliver Jeffers’ “It Wasn’t Me” maybe 92 times this month alone. And I also gave “The Goldfinch” a shot but it was so heavy my arms hurt by page 20 and there weren’t any pictures. (It wasn’t you, Donna, it’s my mom brain.)
You say you feel neglected, but the truth is: I don’t know how to woo 240 tons of iron and steel. I miss the version of you that climbed up onto my lap and purred wild word after word into my ear. Now, I strain to even hear you ramming your cars into each other at odd hours, drowned out by the sound of Mahna-Mahna on repeat and everyone hollering for clean underpants.
A friend e-mailed the other day about a free two-hour Scrivener workshop I might be interested in. Which I would have been, I told him, except I don’t write anymore, and haven’t since you crawled out the door dragging half of my brain with you in search of a clear route west…all because YOU wanted to see what the moon looked like over the Grand Canyon and I wouldn’t drive you.
I guess it’s not entirely true, that I don’t write. I tweet, although I get scared and delete them before people comment. Notes for my kiddos’ lunchbox napkins when I remember. I can manage a decent obituary and the occasional newspaper article, but that doesn’t cover the bills.
Our projects? The ones we loved like children, that we named and whispered to and envisioned in glossy Pantone colors with double-fan adhesive binding before sending off to yet another not-the-right-agent?
I haven’t seen them in months.
If we wait a bit longer, “months” changes to “a year.”
They cry for us, sometimes.
(Doesn’t that just break your heart? Do you even have a heart?) We left them dangling on the edges of various cliffs and ravines. They deserved a chance to reach The End, but you needed your own adventure, and I was too tired to drive to Arizona.
I’m sorry. Let’s stop blaming each other. I’ve changed, or at least I am trying: I only watch TV when I fold laundry now; I switched my social media passwords to something so complicated I couldn’t remember them if I were a World Memory Champion; I am reading longer books again, or at least, I will be once I return that stack in the corner to the library.
Just come back inside. My lap is empty, and I’m allergic to cats.
Got writer’s block? Try writing to your muse: 1500 words or so, direct address in second person. Don’t be surprised if the themes that emerge hint (or shout) what’s really blocking you.
This piece originally ran back in 2014, when my kids were small, my writing practice slow, and focus + inspiration were elusive. Also, my primary relationship was about to detonate. All of this comes through, when I read it today. Still, Sharon has since come back to me, most likely because I begged her and promised to regularly woo her. And I do.
