Okay, I have something to say. I just don’t know what it is yet, but I’m sure there is something waiting to come out. Something has been waiting for years to come out.
Oh, where is my muse? Where is the magic that used to be in my words, dancing on the pages? I used to see them in my mind and feel them form into ideas. There was always a poem in my head or a story waiting for a chance to spill out from my pen. But for so long now, there has been nothing. How can I call myself a writer when I don’t write?
Start small. Description. Like the constant humming and croaking of a million different night creatures in my back yard… getting louder as they find their places, my writing will reveal itself.
My cat with the twitchy nose and freckled face can be my muse. Start small. Start with the movement of her radar ears, which spasm at each noise in the darkness. She cranes her neck to see what only her imagination knows for sure is there. Her back ripples as I touch her softly with just one fingertip. I softly trace the line on the back of her head that separates the two color blocks of black and coppery-brown. She turns to look at me with ears pointing straight up, as alert as soldiers on watch. Her pupils almost fill the space of her eyes, searching for the source of a new noise. She gingerly licks her paw and smooths it over her ear and spotted face. She always looks as though she has missed a spot, or twenty. She doesn’t mind. Contentedly, she settles down for yet another nap.