Drifting

The page seems very far away right now. In all the hours of working on my critical essay, I feel I have drifted away from stories and now, sitting in front of a blank Word document, I'm left with the uneasy feeling of not being able to write. I haven't had this feeling in a long time and I know that it too will pass, that it is a temporary freezing of the psyche and that I need to keep Marvin Bell in the back of my mind.

In listening to Marvin speak in the past he has said to give yourself permission to write poorly. Just write. It isn't going to be your best work, prosaic and beautiful, on a first draft anyway. So why do I put so much pressure on myself to make things beautiful on the first go round?

Lately, I have been caught unawares by these soaring peaks of emotion at the sight of things. I've felt the wetness of tears filling my eyes when I see small children with their parents. I feel alone in the presence of groups. I don't know what to say to anyone I come across and it's beginning to feel lonely here. I don't know what is happening inside of me but there seems to be some kind of emotional revolution taking place beneath the surface.

I wonder sometimes if it is the return of the muse, if I need to be patient and let that feeling cultivate while writing poorly. I like the idea of writing poorly but often have a hard time giving myself permission. I think the fact of the matter is that if I bring myself to the page and stay there, write trite draft after trite draft, the muse will descend through my fingers because I have left the door open for her.

Hmm, it's strange that I just named my muse as a woman. I've never thought about it before but I can almost see her hanging just outside of my reach. She is full figured and wearing linen, a coastal dress, loose and breezy against her hips. I can see her face and she is olive in complexion with brown hair that is light as she moves, brushing her ears as she moves and her eyes are open and alert, the slight tilt of the lids at the outermost corners. She is without blemish and her skin shows some light freckles, sun-kissed across the brow of her nose. I want her to say something to me but she remains walking towards me although never closing in. Her lips are smooth and soft, not wet with color but shining with a rosy hue that is a touch darker than her skin at the outline and sinking into a darker shade where it would open. She is beautiful but silent and again I am left feeling distant and alone. But I can hope that she will continue on her walk towards me and that some day, soon I hope, she will be allowed to approach and she will breath into my open mouth as I open to say something to her.