I think about this book all the time, in the same fevered way I used to think about lovers. Is it real art, or is it limerence? Will it love me back? Do I choose the right words to make it sing? Is my tone too serious, too light? Do I ask too much, or too little? What if I fall completely, deeply in love with this book and it all falls apart at the end? What if I give everything I have, and it isn’t enough? How can I sleep at night, not knowing how it all turns out?

And then I say, Ah, fuck it. It is what it is. I got along without it before I started it, gonna get along without it now. Uh huh.

But I think of not writing, not knowing how it ends and it feels like falling, so I go crawling back. Please baby please, can’t we make this thing work? I swear, I’ll outline each scene on an index card, I’ll pin you to the wall until I find just the right way to tell your story.

If you just promise not to leave me.

7 thoughts on “Muses

  1. Write the book with the same passion and humor that you wrote that post and you (and it) will be great.

  2. Zackly. The mortification of not being the original. Pretty much sums up the human condition. More or less.

  3. What’s more, the labyrinthine legalese required to create the facade of originality, now shunted to only those who can afford it. As in, creators of jobs, owners of intellectual property, etc. etc.

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