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.