Today, I spent $30 on paper.
I don’t know why I did it – wait, that’s not true. I don’t want to say I know what I did it. But I know.
I’m hoping my muse eats paper.
See, I’ve always liked college-ruled, yellow notebook paper. When I look at it, I see myself writing “STR, INT, WIS” and the rest of the Dungeons and Dragons stats in neat rows down the left-hand side of the page. I can feel the excitement as I look over at my dice, the hanging moment between what is and what will be, the moment before you call on fate and cast, as they say, the die. The page speaks to me of adventure, new beginnings, fantastic worlds…
I hoped the paper would bring some of it back. Re-invigorate my dying-please-don’t-be-dead muse, because I haven’t heard from her in awhile. Or I haven’t spoken to her, at any rate.
So, I go to the Giant Paper Megastore (sorry, Dunder Mifflin) and they only have 6-packs of the paper I need. And a personal notebook for “everyday thoughts.” And a pen with a writing action I fancy I like. And home I go.
I wish I could say I flew home and tore into the paper, anxious to write. But I didn’t. Don’t know why. I could hear the paper calling to me from the other room as I studiously watched T.V. (it had a crinkly voice). And it whispered, very, very faintly…
So I finally sat down to write. Grab my pen. Stare at the tabula rasa. Nothing comes. I put the paper real close to my heart and hope it wakes her up.
Funny thing with muses … you never know.
I tell myself to write. Anything. Something, preferably. So I start, and I like how the letters look crawling across the page. It’s going OK…
…but my hand hurts like Hell. A physical reminder not to let your writing muscles (wherever they might reside) get out of shape. Nothing’s more pissed off than a fat, under-exercised muse.