This post is about the writing muse I really need.
I look at the faces on the mirrored-wall and I try to find sympathy with my fellow victims. The woman I see is red in the face, bellowing like an ox. Her frizzy hair looks like antennae. At least, I don’t look like…, oh crap! No wait, that frizzy, gelatinous heap of tan-free flesh is all me.
I am struggling to keep up. The music is all bop, bop, boppy and I am all beeeep, beeeep, beeeepy. Rose is relentless. I call her The Roser-na-tor. She is really just like Arnold Schwarzenegger, only shorter and she tries to kill me at least three times a week.
Movement does not come naturally to me. In fact anything faster than a sedate walk is utter torture, but healthy body, healthy mind. So I go to an exercise class at least three times a week. Just a note on the healthy mind: My mind tends towards the gutter naturally so I have to work twice as hard as other people.
“And another eight.” She bounces past me. Sparkly and sweat-free like a Butterfly Fairy. I am dripping, my feet splash in the puddle of salt at my ankles.
“One, two, three,” Rose is smiling.
Please, really, kill me. Even her pony tail bounces with enthusiasm.
“six, seven, eight.”
The set is over. Thank the heavens.
“Now the other side.”
We continue in this fashion for another 60 minutes or so. Although I always I feel like I am going die, I never seem to. And I go back the next week. You’d think I’d learn.
Sometimes writing also feels like this.
I stare at the clock above my desk. Tick, tock, tick, tock. My cursor is blinking. I don’t know about your cursor, but mine is very judgemental. It’s always blinking as if it’s saying, “Why aren’t you typing, loser?”
I drop my hands onto the keyboard and wait for the Genius Fairy to strike. Nothing. Word Fairy? Nope, not working. Any kind of freaking fairy? And then I think of Rose and wish she was a Writer-na-tor too.
“And one more word, Mia!”
And I would be all like type, type, typing. My fingers would slow down.
“No Mia, come on, keep going. Once more sentence.”
Then one sentence would become two sentences and I would keep going and Rose would be all bouncy and happy and say, “Come on - eight more.”
The story would grow. “Don’t stop Mia. Feel the word.”
And I’d type until my fingers came off.
Not that I can write very well when someone is screaming at me, but a kick in the behind won’t be bad. Hmm, Writer-na-tor. I wonder if I could patent that and start a business as a writing coach? Or perhaps I should consult a health professional about some adult ADD meds.
Anyway back to the story board…