To My Smoking, Swearing Muse
I remember the day you introduced yourself.
You plopped down like you owned the place, said your name was Gunn, and you were here to light a fire under my ass.
(I wondered then what kind of Muse used words like that. Little did I know how different you would turn out to be)
You have lit fires, you have abandoned me for years, only to return with a vengeance and a bucket-load of ideas.
In fact, you gave me so many ideas, I’ll need another couple of lifetimes to get through them all.
Thanks for that.
I must admit, a tattooed, smoking, swearing Muse was not what I expected. But I’m glad you chose me, Gunn.
You did choose me, right?
I was not some pity case, or a dare by your peers, right?
I hope you took me on because you saw my potential. Even if it was raw talent that needed shaping and polishing like a gem cut from a mountain.
But I have a confession to make.
I’m flopping like a fish on a beach desperate to be back in the water, where it knows what to expect. Where it knows how to breathe and … be.
I can’t seem to catch my writing-breath.
Should I commit to that publication I’ve been toying with on Medium?
Should I delve further into essays? Should I just buckle down and aim the mystery manuscript at that one publisher, or maybe the second on the list?
(It’s so hard to know who will do right by my characters)
Should I insist on a hybrid contract or smile sweetly and take what they give me?
(Now I can’t help but think of that scene from Shawshank. You know the one.)
So crack another beer, Gunn. Light up a smoke and come share your wisdom with me.
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