Hello readers!

Originally, Writing to be Read was a blog on Today.com. If you are a reader looking for that blog, you have come to the right place. I went to publish a post one day and found the whole site was gone. Not just my blog, but the whole blogging network, had disappeared into the unexplored realms of cyberspace. So this is the new home of Writing to be Read and I am pleased that you have found your way here. If you are not a former reader, but new to my blog, then I am equally pleased. I hope that you will enjoy what you read her, perhaps even find it informative, and visit again and again. For my first post, here on WordPress, I thought I would re-post my favorite blog from the other site, not just because I am fond of it, but also because I feel that it was one of my best, so it is a good way to begin here at this new blog site. If you are a former reader that has already read this post, I can only hope that it was one of your favorites, too. And so, without futher ado…

Learning to Listen to My Muse

            Muse: taken from the Greek word, meaning a spirit or power watching over artists, poets, and musicians.   Today, it is generally used to refer simply to the power of inspiration.  In this respect, every creative mind has a muse, each taking a different form or even a distinctly individual personality.  I know mine does.

            Perhaps because of the mythological origins of the word, which actually referred to nine Greek Goddesses that acted as protectors for artists, or maybe it’s just because I am a woman and I believe that the personality of the muse takes on aspects of the mistress or master, but I always think of my muse as being female.  At the rate that Stephen King produces books, I would think that his muse must message him daily and cook, clean and take care of all menial chores, so that he can concentrate on creating best sellers.  Not mine, however.  Although I think that my muse really does try to be a good muse, playfully teasing in attempts to improve my mood when I’m down, pointing out things that she thinks might inspire me, trying desperately to cajole me into concentrating on the work at hand instead of a million other distractions, it always seems that when I need her the most, she is no where to be found.

            It is at those times when I need to write, because I have a deadline to meet, or just because I’m stuck and need to move the story forward before frustration causes me to throw up my hands in despair, that I really need my muse.  She disappeared for awhile after the death of my son, after nothing she could think to do would cheer me, but then she came up with a way to get me writing, like any good muse would, and she came back with the throttle open, doling out inspiration by the bucketful, by planting the idea that it was good to express my feelings of grief on paper.  Grief, I had plenty of and man, did I write.

            The past couple of weeks we have been busily moving into our new home, and I haven’t taken time to sit and write like I should.  As I busied myself unpacking and cleaning everything that we have had in storage for almost five years, I didn’t really pay attention as my muse tried to amuse and draw my attention to the keyboard.  Last week, when I finally got around to trying to write my blog entry, I found her sulking in the corner, with injured pride, unwilling to assist in inspiring, like a pouting child.  Today, as I prepared to sit down before the keyboard, I couldn’t help but notice the heaviness left by her total absence.  I looked high and low.  I looked here and there, but I couldn’t find her anywhere.  Finally, I gave up on trying to write and took a drive up to Lake DeWeese with my husband. 

            When we arrived at the lake, what did I find, but my muse sitting on a rock at the base of the dam. The sound of the water pounding over the top and down behind her only fueled my anger at her perceived abandonment of me.  I slashed my way through the bushes, unmindful of the sticker bushes intermingled with the willows that grabbed for the flesh of my legs.  Just before I reached her, slopping through the marshy muck, she looked up to reveal eyes full of hurt and a tear streaked cheek.  Like a slap in the face, the revelation hit me.  My muse was not acting like a rebellious child, but simply finding solitude to lick her wounds.  Wounds that I had inflicted by ignoring her, as she had danced around, trying to get my attention.  She hadn’t run away, and she wasn’t hiding.  I had chased her away.  I immediately apologized and asked her to come home.  She smiled, and pointed to a hawk, sailing on the wind currents above our heads, then pointed to a pair of geese that were sunning on the bank downstream.  All was forgiven.  My muse danced off over the water to stand in the middle of the river at the base of the dam, where no human being would be able to stay upright in the water at this height.  She spread her arms open toward the sky, the water pounding down upon her from the overflow as if to say, “I’m right here and I’m free.  All you need do, is to listen to me.”     

My Muse

My muse is always trying to inspire in every way.

She dances and sticks out her tongue, enticing me to play.

She knows just what inspires me

And she tries to make me see

A world that’s filled with beauty, everywhere I go.

Inspiration is all around, my muse does surely know.

On days when I am feeling down or am busy as can be

I don’t always take the time to see what she wants me to see.

By the time I’m ready to be inspired,

Of this game, she has grown tired.

She may be sulking in the corner, or in the other room

Seeking inspiration, she might be staring at the moon.

Listening to my muse is the wisest choice, I’ve learned.

She knows how to stir the inspiration, that within me burns.

The miracles of nature; a flower or a bird

Are brought to my attention, but she never says a word.

She shows me how the morning dew, on the grass does glisten

She fills my head with great ideas, if I will only listen.

Copyright ©2009  Kaye Lynne Booth