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.
