“What I try to do is write. I may write for two weeks ‘the cat sat on the mat, that is that, not a rat.’ And it might be just the most boring and awful stuff. But I try. When I’m writing, I write. And then it’s as if the muse is convinced that I’m serious and says, ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll come.’” — Maya Angelou
Today I'm feeling moody and slightly flu-ish and there's a kink in my back. Writing is not coming easily at all... The words that do come, tumble out of me like bumbling clowns exiting a tiny car. (I'm not even sure what I mean by that, but it sounds more fun than it is!)
I keep hearing my uncle's Jerry Lewis-like voice warning me that “You can't polish a turd.” In other words, to my family, everything I attempted turned out like shit. (Please excuse my potty mouth today. I need a nap.) I desperately want to prove him wrong...prove them all wrong. I have no fear about him reading this post, however, because I've put so much distance between myself and all nay-saying family members. None-the-less, their voices taunt me in inner critic form, telling me this is all a big waste of time. They know how I hate to waste time, so they know right where to get me.
The quote above from Maya Angelou came to me the other day, and I found it to be quite comforting, so I thought I would share it. I am not writing about cats, mats or rats; but still: I can definitely relate to what she is saying here. I figure that if she went through this “waiting for the muse to come” while putting in time on the keyboard each day, then I am in good company. I guess I tend to think that brilliance comes easily to the Maya Angelou's of the world. But we all have to put in the time to get there, and sometimes we all wonder if we'll ever “arrive.”