Ms. Muse

an apology after a year break from writing

She sways back and forth from my ceiling. A noose around her neck. Blood vessels have bursted causing her skin to turn purple and blue. It's my Muse. I hung her by her neck 15 months ago, and I haven't published since.

Fifteen months ago I had a great essay idea! The kind of essay where you’re on to something big. The idea was IKEA Words, an essay about cliched language. This phrase, IKEA Words, had potential as something that will stick in thousands of writers' minds – an idea that would be etched into my grave: RIP Andrew, the brilliant author of IKEA Words. I had to get the story perfect.

I grinded on the essay for 40-50 hours in a single month – thought on it a whole lot more. And, besides being a bit overwritten, I’m proud of it. It’s a great essay. Which came with a cost.

That month of July, I started to abuse my Muse. 

I slid the noose around her neck. With each peep from her, I tightened the knot. She was a distraction. I ignored paths that were creatively alive for me. Her plans felt all over the place. I already knew where the essay was going. Muse only throws out crazy ideas like a story about writers who stare at goats. 

By the end of the month, I had shamed her so much she kicked the stool out from underneath herself.

I replaced her with the grinder inside me. The problems that come with this are numerous. Perfectionist, over-thinking, neglecting intuition, losing the joy of writing – all psychological blocks. You name it. I championed it. 

After I published this essay, I didn't write again. It was too painful to write. It’s painful to grind when writing is a passion.

I get chills that she's still swaying after all this time. I thought she would be silent by now. Writing would be a pastime, a skill I attempted for a year and left by the wayside. 

Yet each morning I hear her from my bed. "Page… Come back to the page." 

And I hide under the covers. I tried writing. I committed 4 years to it! It’s not my calling. I no longer enjoy it. All it brings is psychological pain. 

Just as it hurts to write, it hurts to not write. 

I hear her everywhere: I hear her every time I enter a coffee shop. “Paaaage” I hear her every time I see a writer friend. “Paaaage.” I hear her in my dreams. “Paaaage.” No matter how much I abuse her. “Paaaage.” No matter how often I ignore her. “Paaaage.” She always beckons. “Paaaage.” 

She can’t be silenced. She’s immortal. I am called to write. 

I leap up from my desk, rush to my kitchen, and grab a butcher knife. Across my room, she hangs, her feet bumping against my desk. I hop onto my desk and grab the rope. Knife in one hand, rope in the other, my whole body shoots with nervous excitement. I’m going to cut her down!

I press the knife to the rope and the threads unfurl until the last slide of my knife. Out of the air she crashes to the ground. Holy ghost. 

Beside my desk, she vomits bright colors onto the ground, and whipping her hand in it, she splatters colors across the walls. It’s child-like, a finger painting. She just wants to create and play. She wants to spew essays out into the world -- write often, publish often.  

She stands and the paint begins to ascend like raindrops returning to the sky, before she twists like a tornado. I go blind in the middle of a hurricane of color.

“Ms. Muse,” I yell into the storm, “I’m sorry.” 

“I’m sorry I stopped listening to you. I’ve been more focused on impressing others with my writing craft or pretending like I don’t hear your call back to the page, instead of creating because it’s exciting to throw colors and words into the world.

“In truth I'm scared of what I will say. I’m scared my creative wanderings will be judged. My stories will be incomplete. They might not make sense. They might be vulnerable or resentful. They might be time wasted writing about my grandfather or my relationship to grass. These are close to my heart.

“I apologize for not showing up and trusting the world with what’s inside of me today.”

The storm stops. The colors fall. Every inch of my room and my body is covered in paint. She looks at me, smiles, and flies out my window and over the city. A trail of words are left behind her – each landing on roofs, and sinking through. 

I clear the wet paint from the screen, and I publish this imperfect story. In distant chimneys smoke arises. I smile imagining someone is enjoying a story of mine. Something I released into the world before my insecurities got involved. Something painted from my heart.

Thank you for reading.

A few shoutouts to the writers who encouraged me, gave me feedback, and said, hey you are doing just great. Ken Rice, Erin Rupp, Jamie Banks Tommy Dixon, Cam Houser

Andrew 💚