There are times I just can’t shut my mind off; when I sit down with a good book, but the evil muse bids me write.
And if I knew what he wanted me to write—my muse is surely male—it’d all be so easy. Just get a few words onto the page and I could go back to enjoying my reading.
But it never is quite that easy. He interrupts a perfectly good read and then leaves me sitting empty-headed at the laptop. Hardly seems fair, but certainly seems male.
John and I, while on our two-hour one hour car ride, in which Crystal drives in a big ol’ loop instead of a straight line, discussed the idea of professional writing, the skill level needed and the fear that comes with never feeling quite good enough.
And that is the demon that casts a shadow over my writing—inadequacy. And it all seems quite silly, to be perfectly honest.
I like the way I write, though I can see the flaws so apparently. I know that I am lazy and could be much better if I spent more time reading and more time writing. One does not become better by sitting on her ass watching Dexter and Grey’s Anatomy and Studio Sixty and Numb3rs, but she does become happier, and that is a trade off she is often willing to make.
Other people like my writing. They tell me so all the time, and while I take the praise of close friends with the requisite grain of sodium chloride, the praise of relative strangers always catches me a little off guard and causes no small amount of vainglory.
It is said vainglory that causes me to use words like vainglory and use silly rhetorical devices, like substituting sodium chloride when simple table salt would do. If you couldn’t tell, my writing is terribly self-aware. Sort of like I am, which is why you’ll never catch me in a sleeveless shirt or a bikini, at least not until I get rid of those pesky fifty pounds that just won’t go away.
Oh, now I am so depressed about my heft, I think I’ll go eat a half gallon of Bryers. That should help.
And were I just going for the cheap, end it with a one-liner trick, that would be the end of my entry, but this damned muse still won’t let me read. Maybe he is the anti-Christ and doesn’t want me to read another glib Jesus book. Or maybe he is Jesus and doesn’t want me to read another glib Jesus book.
Maybe I should write another glib Jesus book instead.
(Sorry about the cheap, end it with a one-liner trick. Really, I am.)