It’s our fault, really. We took advantage. We called on them over and over, looked to their light when our own were darkened, and rarely, if ever, did we show our gratitude.
We used to. We used to celebrate them. We sang for them, prepared feasts for them, danced for them and created art for them.
Now? It’s a good day if someone remember their names. Or, you know, remembers the concept of them. The Muses. The inspiration behind art, behind writing.
I’ve been particularly bad lately. Cramming word upon word on page after page, with no regard to them or their feelings.
Not once have I thanked them, or shown my appreciation for them in any way.
But I also forgot how fickle deities can be. How vengeful, how mocking.
And now they’re pissed. I’ve gone to the well, but I’d be happier were it dry, as opposed to the sickly treacle or the oozing garbage that I’ve found there lately.
Oh, I’ve had plenty of ideas. Just no good ones. I haven’t even invented a glittery vampire or talking dog. It’s just been trash, pure and unredeemable.
I thought I was just having a bad spell.
But then I noticed something. I’m not alone in this. My RoW80 group seems to be struggling. Twitter is riddled with rails against writer’s block and lack of focus this week.
It would seem the muses are in revolt, withholding their favor. They’re sitting back, eating grapes and wearing smug smirks. Don’t need us? Fine, then we’ll just sit here enjoying our classical and impeccably structured music while our pool boy reads us our favorite odes. Have fun writing derivative crap.
This? Does not bode well for us.
So I’m going to bow to them. I’m taking some time to let them be alone, in peace.
Maybe if I give them a break, they’ll come back to me refreshed and revived, instead of bitter and spiteful.
I’m going to kick back for a while and catch up on my reading, see what they’ve inspired before. Maybe listen to some new music. I’m going to lay a feast out for my family tonight, cooked from the ground up with no help from packages or kits.
I’m going to work, and I’m going to appreciate the work that others have done.
Of course, I will also be pretending I didn’t tell my husband that the only thing worse than a bitch in a snit is a holy bitch in a snit.
I’m kind of hoping they didn’t hear that.