Skip to main content

Blame it on my muse.

Lynn Armstrong
I was innocently sitting in an airplane, and bam. It arrived. No it demanded to be heard.  Having no paper and pen handy in that very second, I pulled out my phone and started reciting was being dictated to me.  

You speak to me quietly.
I strain to hear you.
I like that.
You make me want to lean in
As I study your words one by one

There are just the two of us.

I am a writer.  I write all over the place. In journals. On my phone.  On my hand.  On napkins in restaurants.  On receipts at red lights. The words . . . just arrive. Sometimes they fly by as if they are on their way somewhere, and if I am aware of them, I can reach out and hold them. Other times they hover.  Sometimes I feel like I got hit by a truck.  This is my muse, and we have a love / hate relationship.

In Greek mythology, a muse is an inspirational goddess of literature, science and the arts. They were considered the source of the knowledge embodied in the poetry, lyric songs and myths that were related orally for centuries in these ancient cultures. 

I can't say if my muse is male or female, or neither.  Sometimes my muse has a male voice, other times it has a female voice.  Sometimes it has a face, other times not.  But its presence is undeniable. I cannot look away, try as I might. 

My muse tells me things about my world that go beyond mere words, but more to the central truth. When I write, I don't decide on the outcome, I follow it.  Sometimes my muse demands poetry, other times it reveals itself in a dialogue, a monologue, or a story of some kind. I don't choose. It chooses me.  And it reveals the parts of my soul that are sometimes not so pretty.  

My muse reveals to me the beauty and the pain, the perfection and the scars, the things I would like to hide and the truths from which I cannot run. My muse can be an asshole sometimes.  Sometimes my muse is brilliant. Sometimes my muse keeps me up at night. Sometimes my muse awakens me with beautiful poetry. Sometimes my muse just wants to mess with my mind.

And I, a dutiful servant writer, write.  When I die, I hope somebody burns most of it.  Just in case though, I'd like to go on record here as blaming it on my muse.












Popular posts from this blog

A Shoe Story

Why. I really don't know most days.


Every day, I stand back and look upon my creation and I think how surreal this life is. I find myself wondering, and being asked by others, how I ended up here in this place that I never intended to be. The owner of a shoe store.  Not just any shoe store, but the shoe store that literally has carried me through my life.  And here I am.  In the place between here are there.  On the precipice of my own making once again . . .

February 1, 2016, I walked into a 29 year old retail business known then as Zoe's Boutique.  Aside from a brief stint at Kristy Allen in the 80's, as a sales person, I had never worked a day of retail in my life. I did not have a point of sale machine, or any of the tools that I needed.  No accounting system. No bookkeeping system. No inventory system, just a list of inventory counted and recorded not more than two days earlier. I had a plan to reinvent this business, from the brand up. To breathe new life into this …

On Laughter and Forgetting

Dear Page 48,

Hello, it's me again.
Six years now.
How time has flown.
Not really.
It has actually been very hard for me.
I wish I could say it has been easy.
That freedom is great and was worth every single moment of humiliation that I endured that day and many days after.
The truth is, you hurt me in a way nobody else ever has.
I have tried to put you where you belong, which is nowhere in my life. I wish I had never met you. I wish you had not been in my life. But wishing is not real.  What's real is that for some reason, you were there, and then I was there, and the rest has been my history, because I imagine you have not spent a second thinking about what you have done.

I remember the first encounter on that day in a room full of people, when you questioned why I was even there.  I stood there, waiting for the person who actually placed me there to respond. Looking back, on that day, I wish I had walked away, but I trusted in my leaders, as I aways had, that their i…

50 over 50

These are things I know for sure.
That time is finite
That beauty is subjective
That every day
 both time and beauty
as it was defined mere seconds ago
changes.
That life is too short to fade away into the background of time.
That life is too short not to ask for what you want, and expect it.
That life is too short to wait, and wish.
That there is a price to pay, but the time spent wishing is a greater loss.
otherwise I know
nothing.