A few weeks ago I was having a discussion about the muse. Someone told a story about a friend that believed her muse was her son's green parakeet. Even after the bird met it's demise, the woman froze the carcass and kept it for several years, afraid that disposing of it would cause the loss of her muse.
I could relate(not necessarily to freezing a pet). As a writer I certainly have quirks about what has to be on my desk, in my writing space and playing on my Ipod before I can write. At one point I had an aversion to blue pens convinced that blue ink would thwart my muse.
It's easy to blame the muse for the inability to produce work. And I am guilty of this as well.
But with our family's recent move to the Upper Pennisula of Michigan where I grew up, it seems I finally have no more excuses. Surrounded by nature and living life at a slower pace, I have been forced to own up to my muse.
Maybe it is the awareness of being in a grove of pines, the way the sunlight seeps into the moss carpet and reflects off the top of a mushroom cap. Maybe it's the cascade of snowflakes that catch in my eyelashes or the crackle of twig snaps beneath my boots as I follow a chickadee call.
I have to believe that my muse has always been with me. But there is something here in the country that helps her more than survive.
So I have to ask, do you believe? Where do you find your muse? Does your muse thrive in certain conditions?