Muse

I am currently getting smashed.

No, wait.

I am getting hammered.

Yeah, there is a difference.  Let me explain.

“Smashed” is used as slang by a co-worker of mine in a novel, yet crass, way.  An example: “Yeah, I smashed that chick.”  A definition:  Smash – verb – to fuck.

He’s an interesting guy.  I like him.  He has definitely altered my speech though.  I no longer get smashed.

Back to my point.  I am getting hammered.  A few days ago, I made this resolution to renew my efforts to write.  As some may know, I have what is essentially half a book written.  I did all this and then went crazy.  I have been fighting ever since to get back to a healthy mental state so that Asher’s story may continue.  The problem has mostly been a lack of a muse.

It’s a terrible weakness to give something or someone outside oneself the power to inspire.  Once upon a time, I was a college student.  I had a talent for writing, and I have always had a love of beer.  So it was that I would sit down to write a research paper and crack open a Killian’s Irish Red.  No big deal, right?  Actually, it kind of was.  I could not write without one.  And then two.  And then three.  Basically, I would get a six-pack and kill it in the name of writing.  The scores on these papers were good.  Like, 99 of a possible 100 good.  The results spoke for themselves.  My ability to play Xbox would suffer on account of alcohol, but my ability to write would be honed like a laser.

I’m not stupid though.  I knew this was a bad direction to go.  I stopped writing as much, mostly because I was working very hard to stop drinking as much.  I cut the amount that I drank dramatically.  It was, by most accounts, a win.  Except, I wasn’t writing much.  Every once in a while, someone or something would inspire me, but it wasn’t like it used to be.  Ever hear of state dependent memory?  That’s what we had here.

Then, finally, I found a legitimate muse.  It was a person.  I loved this person.  She made me want to be so much more than I was.  She blew away all the shitty little things I ever worried about.  My mind was free to roam.  When my mind roamed, it would create the scenery.  All I had to do was describe it.  It went quite well, for a while.  Even when times were bad, I could write.  I like to pretend that I was pretty damn good at it.  As you might have guessed, it didn’t last.  When she left, my mind fell apart.  I could come up with things, but only in fits and starts.

So it is that we find ourselves at the birth of a new year, and I am trying every trick I know to drag a single word out of my brain.  I know it is weakness, but it would be worse to do nothing.  I am doing my best to write.  I will not burden anyone with the responsibility of inspiring me.  I will be responsible with my chemical inspiration.  If I lack real inspiration, I will not write and drive.

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