I have a muse, a critic, and a distraction. How about you?
My Muse, my Critic, and my Distraction are a variable team of inspiration, procrastination, and naughtiness. They make me happy. They make me mad. They make me laugh. They make me cry. They even make me horny as hell. Sometimes I can’t decide who is who sometimes.
Whenever I speak of my muse, I know everyone sees this young, beautiful girl in a Greek toga, laughing and dancing in a meadow beneath a tree. She might be with others of her kind, she might not. She might have long blond or brown hair that swirls around her as she dances. For her life is simple and fun and free. Her only job is to inspire.
The image makes me laugh. Because if my Muse were anything like the above image she’d have fainted or been committed to an asylum long ago. The truth is, my muse might have been one of those maidens years and years ago, but she’s since changed. Life has interfered. She’s not the innocent muse with the rose-colored blinders.
I can see her in Greek style dress. She’s find it fun. But there’d have to be accessories. First would be the matching corset to push her breasts up. The second would be the bodice of the dress, low-cut show off her cleavage. The third would be the skirt of the toga would be split up the sides for a peek and tease as she stalks her prey. She might wear a large gothic cross, studded with black onyx, not because she’s Christian, but just because it’s shiny and beautiful. Her natural dark red hair would be dyed black underneath, and would curl gentle down her back.
My Muse is graceful and wild and predatory. She’s full of attitude and spirit. She doesn’t care about what others think about her. She’s learned about live and love. She’s lost what she loves and been betrayed. She’s grown and become strong. She’s a fighter. Of course she would have to be a warrior to combat my Critic.
My Critic reminds me of my Muse. She’s looks like what a muse should be. Lovely and tall with long blond hair caressing the top of her bottom. She dresses in a virgin white toga and sandals. She’s a no frill woman. She doesn’t want anything to detract from her.
She’s all seductive curves and smiles. She has the face of an angel and the silver tongue of a politician. There is no loud berating. No contemptuous looks. No overtly derogatory statements.
My Critic is the silent killer of creative. She sidles in when my Muse isn’t looking or is too distracted by Distraction to notice and whispers in my ear. She’s not mean about what she says. She’s actually nice in her own way. But then she’s learned to be the voice of doubt. A word here and a word there and I’m to afraid to move on until my Muse rushed to the rescue, usually after she’s finished with Distraction.
My Distraction is as different from my Muse and my Critic as day is from night. My Distraction is also the hardest to ignore or fight. Probably because my Distraction is male.
Tall, dark, and handsome male. He’s sexy, sweet, demanding, and arrogant all wrapped into one package. He also knows just how to amuse me and make me forget. He is naughtiness, creative inspiration, pleasureful diversion, and sexual procrastination. And his charm isn’t reserved just for me.
He’s directed that sensual, sex-filled smile toward my Muse and my Critic. He’s distracted us all from our self-important job of writing. He’s at it again….