My Virtual Soap Box
In search of a muse.
Writing is almost painful for me.
It's not that I suffer from writers block. Actually my problem is almost the complete opposite of writers block.
At times the words and ideas come so fast that I can't get them down. Poetry and prose, factoid and fiction competing for my fingers. Theorems, concepts, synonyms, homonyms, sentences and rephrasings. All colliding in my head as one big train wreck where wording is mangled and half of the thoughts are lost for ever.
No paragraph arrives perfect or complete. Each requires fine tuning. Gibberish removed, redundancies deleted, grammar corrected, tense adhered to, ideas clarified. Completion being hampered by the risk of mangling what I already have or further muddling what I am trying so desperately to get across.
Frustration doesn't even begin to describe the emotions involved. When I have been typing and typing and retyping the same two pages for the last ninety minutes; over and over and over again I begin to feel a certain kinship with Papa Hemingway. Understanding the need that old Ernest had for the gun.
Haunted by negative imagery and the feeling that my head may soon explode, I plod steadily along.
I do it because I know what I'm capable of. I know the result will be worth it.
It's still hard and I wish there was some thing, some how, some who that would make it easier.
Where do I apply for a muse?
