Somewhere Between The Siren And The Muse
I live, as I suspect many writers do, somewhere in between the siren and the muse.
Remember the Sirens from Homer’s Odyssey?
Just outside my studio door lurks a siren. She wears the colors of Facebook, television, and mindless reading. She uses a lullaby to entice me back under the covers of her warm, comfortable bed disguise.
Many days, I name my siren “Procrastination”. She also answers to the moniker “Excuse”. It is so much easier to hear her raucous beckoning than the quiet, persistent voice of the Muse. (Other ancient mythological characters.)
Things are easier when the muse is present. She is strong in her encouragement; spouting ideas and suggestions almost faster than my fingers can breeze across the keyboard. I take advantage of these times when her voice is clear in my mind and do my best to keep up.
I can hear the siren calling for me, but I am determined to sit here with the muse just a little longer. Of late, I can summon my muse to visit as I explore the fascination of old-fashioned pen to paper journaling. This is not just any pen and paper, mind you, but a fountain pen, albeit an inexpensive model and the fine cream paper of a Moleskine notebook. The words flow as finely as the ink; thoughts smearing forth onto the page. Even my non-artistic scrawls appear legendary.
Despite the siren’s efforts, the Muse is always ready to dictate her wisdom if I will listen. If I will lock the door on the Siren just long enough for the Muse to catch my attention, creativity and prose is my reward.
To focus any attention on the siren’s call causes frustration and regret.
I should know the difference between their charms by now.
Today I shall choose wisely.
I hear you, Muse.
Away with you, Siren.