I’m not very good at being dominant. I used to think I was, but I believe now that I had merely confused the definition of dominant with outspoken, obstreperous, loud when drunk, ballsy as fuck. I confuse things a lot. More accurately, I overcomplicate them. I don’t think that’s uncommon.
Overthinking, overanalyzing, overworking….ugh. I’m over it all.
I’ve started to think about what should become of the words. I’ve started to consider that perhaps they should be organized and categorized and catalogued and bound and cohesive and perhaps even sold. And the moment I start thinking things like that, I turn and run the other way. Which here means, stop writing.
The muses pack it in, say, nuh-uh honey..that’s not what we’re here for.
But why the fuck not? I understand the beauty of things that come unbidden. The gift that arrives without warning and has a beauty that enriches without expectation. The poem that floats in on the wind and feels as effortless to put down as climbing out of bed on an already warm air summer morning.
But what about the days I have to work to get out of bed? Those days have validity and worth, just as much as the other days. Even though they’re more difficult to feel inspired by. Isn’t it the same with the words? Seriously? Who is in charge here? Me? Or the muses?
Am I being dominated by an ethereal creative influence?
It’s bad enough that I’m constantly being beta’d by my dog, now I have to put up with it from inspiration?
When is it okay to make the muse my bitch? And is it ever okay? If I have to push that hard, is it worth it? I guess I won’t know the answer to that until I see the end result.
All I can do is try.
Just let them assist. That is their job.
I’m their bitch too