There it is again. That itch in the back of my head. You know the spot, right? Just a few inches above the neckline and a little behind the ear. Does no good to scratch at it. The itch is too deep to reach.I steal a glance over my shoulder. I know she’s nearby. She always shows up right after the itching starts. A little like someone always ends up knocking at Jed Clampett’s door right after the music in the walls stops playing. She does love making an entrance.
Yes, she plants the seed and the itching starts. And then I wait. Not long. Just long enough for the itch to mutate into a tingle. The quick grow fertilizer she uses causes the tingle. It’s her own proprietary formula, I’m sure. Something like Miracle Grow for the imagination.
I can’t help but wonder what she planted. A new story idea? A character? A scene? She never plants an entire story. It might be nothing more than a line of dialog causing that itch. She’s funny that way, my muse.
I’ll sit and ponder, patiently waiting for her to do her thing. I’ve learned not to rush her. Mere moments will pass before I hear her disembodied giggle. She’ll show herself then, maybe with a wink, perhaps a wry grin, but always with contagious excitement dancing on her face. She’ll nibble on her lower lip and bounce those pretty brows. That’s her way of telling me it’s time to scratch and discover what’s sprouting from that itchy spot in the back of my head.She's so awesome, that muse of mine.
How do you know when your muse is near?
