Palette

Palette

My muse and I have had a love/hate relationship for many years.  Every time I write without the help of my muse, the words are difficult to find, and the writing never feels whole to me.  A couple weeks ago, I started the comedic "BB Gun Story" that I have wanted to write for years, and I can already tell it is going to take me a lot of work.  I was starting to feel angry at the part of myself that can hand me words so easily, impatient with my source of inspiration for abandoning me yet again, especially after we bonded so well during this past April's A-Z Blog Challenge.  I was troubled that my muse does not at all seem interested in making people laugh with words, like I am.  I pushed away the keyboard this morning, and said aloud, "What the hell is it with these damn tears you keep trying to hand to me?"

And I finally saw it:  my muse is not a rebellious teen, trying to fight me at every turn.  She is not a spoiled child, stamping her foot and pouting because I won't do what she wants with her words.  I have always known that writing is painting with words.  I just never stopped and realized what kind of paint shimmers on the palette held by my source of inspiration.  Every unshed tear I swallowed as a child was lovingly collected and protected by the one who gives me words.  Each of those words is a priceless treasure, a glittering drop of pain from the child I once was, and my muse has patiently held those tears, on a palette that I have not allowed myself to acknowledge, for my whole life.  In order to make peace with my source of inspiration, I am going to have to accept what the words from my muse are, and treat that medium with the compassion it deserves.  I know the palette is not filled with an unlimited supply of these drops.  One day, the palette will be dry, ready to fill with a new type of pigment.  Meanwhile, I am going to honor the words my muse gives me, until the last teardrop falls.