My Muse Has Stage Fright: A tale by Marcela
Once upon a time, there was a really anxious text editor who was crippled by her feelings of inadequacy.
She thought she was not fit for writing. That she was not suited for proudly bearing the title of "writer." That she was better off doing something like editing, instead.
It was nonsense, really, since the girl was a fabulous text editor and she had a real imagination. The problem was, that whenever inspiration struck, she'd put her hand to paper, but her fingers would cramp up. Her mind would go blank. A fine sheen of sweat would grace her forehead and her body temperature would rise exponentially.
It wasn't really her fault, you see. For her darling Muse, Darla, was too chicken-sh** (pardon the French) to let Marcela's finger muscles relax. To let her mind drift away on a paper sailboat. To let her body feel calm, cool, collected.
So, one day, Marcela did the unthinkable.
The unforgivable.
The most dramatic thing an aspiring writer could do.
She fired her Muse!
At first Darla was outraged. Aghast. Completely broken and depressed. She packed her bags, lifted her pointy chin, and left Marcela's overcrowded heart. She knew when she was not needed and she knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Marcela would crawl back to her sometime.
The days soon turned to months and Darla hadn't heard from that fickle wannabe writer. She'd sought out employment in other avenues. McDonalds, a call centre in Mumbai, but no one needed an anxious Muse for anything. It seemed that Darla's overly nervous nature was not something people were in want for.
Darla was at the end of her rope! There was only so much she could do and Muses depend on love and fulfilment to be fed and she was starting to starve. Already, she could see the fine bones pressing against her abdomen and Muses can only survive six months without nourishment.
So, she did what she had to do. She checked in on Marcela.
Marcela sat at her work desk, poring over modules. Editing as best as she could. But without her muse, she no longer found joy in working out the puzzles in the written word. She no longer felt fulfilled and proud after she edited a particular humdinger of a sentence!
Darla set her chin and approached her. To say Marcela was surprised is a drastic under-exaggeration for she wept with joy when she saw her old friend!
"Darla my darling! I have missed you," she cried (more or less, for Marcela wasn't as expressive as that...).
"And I, you," Darla sobbed.
"Oh, but darling Darla, you are nothing but skin and bones. What has happened?"
"I have not had any nourishment. No one to inspire and no one to help has left me quite famished for creativity."
Marcela looked guilty. She had done this to her lifelong friend. The one who'd inspired her to write countless children's stories. The one who'd helped her map out the novel she was yet to write.
"Darla, I'm sorry," she whispered, clutching Darla's ice-cold hands as though her life depended on it. And that very well might have been the case, for Marcela knew she needed her Muse back in her life, in order to feel happy and fulfilled every day of her life. "What can I do to have you back in my life, again?"
Darla looked deep into Marcela's deep brown eyes and gave her friend a watery smile.
"Write something?"
So, with a smile on her face, Marcela sat down and wrote this story to tell. Darla might still suffer from bouts of insecurity and inadequacy, but she and Marcela have come to an understanding.
It's better to have a Muse with a serious case of stage fright, than none at all.
She thought she was not fit for writing. That she was not suited for proudly bearing the title of "writer." That she was better off doing something like editing, instead.
It was nonsense, really, since the girl was a fabulous text editor and she had a real imagination. The problem was, that whenever inspiration struck, she'd put her hand to paper, but her fingers would cramp up. Her mind would go blank. A fine sheen of sweat would grace her forehead and her body temperature would rise exponentially.
It wasn't really her fault, you see. For her darling Muse, Darla, was too chicken-sh** (pardon the French) to let Marcela's finger muscles relax. To let her mind drift away on a paper sailboat. To let her body feel calm, cool, collected.
So, one day, Marcela did the unthinkable.
The unforgivable.
The most dramatic thing an aspiring writer could do.
She fired her Muse!
At first Darla was outraged. Aghast. Completely broken and depressed. She packed her bags, lifted her pointy chin, and left Marcela's overcrowded heart. She knew when she was not needed and she knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Marcela would crawl back to her sometime.
The days soon turned to months and Darla hadn't heard from that fickle wannabe writer. She'd sought out employment in other avenues. McDonalds, a call centre in Mumbai, but no one needed an anxious Muse for anything. It seemed that Darla's overly nervous nature was not something people were in want for.
Darla was at the end of her rope! There was only so much she could do and Muses depend on love and fulfilment to be fed and she was starting to starve. Already, she could see the fine bones pressing against her abdomen and Muses can only survive six months without nourishment.
So, she did what she had to do. She checked in on Marcela.
Marcela sat at her work desk, poring over modules. Editing as best as she could. But without her muse, she no longer found joy in working out the puzzles in the written word. She no longer felt fulfilled and proud after she edited a particular humdinger of a sentence!
Darla set her chin and approached her. To say Marcela was surprised is a drastic under-exaggeration for she wept with joy when she saw her old friend!
"Darla my darling! I have missed you," she cried (more or less, for Marcela wasn't as expressive as that...).
"And I, you," Darla sobbed.
"Oh, but darling Darla, you are nothing but skin and bones. What has happened?"
"I have not had any nourishment. No one to inspire and no one to help has left me quite famished for creativity."
Marcela looked guilty. She had done this to her lifelong friend. The one who'd inspired her to write countless children's stories. The one who'd helped her map out the novel she was yet to write.
"Darla, I'm sorry," she whispered, clutching Darla's ice-cold hands as though her life depended on it. And that very well might have been the case, for Marcela knew she needed her Muse back in her life, in order to feel happy and fulfilled every day of her life. "What can I do to have you back in my life, again?"
Darla looked deep into Marcela's deep brown eyes and gave her friend a watery smile.
"Write something?"
So, with a smile on her face, Marcela sat down and wrote this story to tell. Darla might still suffer from bouts of insecurity and inadequacy, but she and Marcela have come to an understanding.
It's better to have a Muse with a serious case of stage fright, than none at all.
Comments