Quite often, as is the case with any artist, the muse disappears. For long stretches of time. Long, maddening, painful stretches of time. But then a small spark of something: a change in the weather, a song you haven't heard in ages, a good turn of phrase from a friend or in a book...it will reignite the passions and feed that starving little muse that vanished into a dark corner of your being.
When the well is dry for so long, you learn to live with it, or forget about it. You can't remember the last time you were creative, the last time you put your heart into something beautiful or wonderous. Then it's much like a long-overdue wild fire and it rushes through you, burning away all the dead broken mess inside your head so new things can grow, push up through the ashes.
I've noticed my muse tends to prefer colder weather. I look back on stories and poems I've written and see that the majority of them were created during the fall/winter months. The current scientific theory about depression and lack of productivity during the darker months of the year (a mood disorder called SAD: seasonal affective disorder) doesn't seem to apply here.
My mind must swell under the humid oppressive heat of a South Carolina spring/summer and once the chill hits the air, it is free to expand.
The nighttime sky is vividly clear: each and every star, planet, galaxy is put into crisp nuclear perspective and on a freezing November night, when the moon is too small to matter, you can see into infinity. And the muse revels in the chaos.
So she returns. Nice to see you again, lady.
--Manda
11/14/10
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