My muse has been very quiet lately. No waking me up at 4 AM with another brilliant idea. No poetry interruptions at work or demands that I skip eating to start yet another book. Instead, she’s been watching my daughter.
“Is she feeling better?” she asks.
“Yes. She can go back to school now.”
“Did the doctor uncover the cause?”
“No, not really. Just a progression in her condition.”
My muse nods. “It is very difficult to sit and be unable to help.”
“Tell me about it.”
Reaching out to me, she pulls me closer, careful not to turn me to stone but still offering comfort, something my muse rarely does. “You’re a good mother. Remember that. You were born with a gift for knowing what to do and how to do it. I see it in your work with others, and in your own writing. And I see it now as you care for your daughter. You must not forget that.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
My daughter has been very ill since March, but is thankfully improved and back in school. She has a mitochondrial disorder which can be scary and the future is unknown. Two months ago she had a serious set-back and had to be hospitalized. That stopped the presses around here; I just can’t get excited about publishing when my child is sick.
“It reminds you of what matters most in life,” my muse says. “I’ve seen great artists come and go over the centuries, but nothing is more beautiful than the love between a parent and child. And nothing is more sacred.”
Then she smiles. “Now that your daughter is well again, shouldn’t you be getting back to work on your new play, and start marketing the hell out of Medusa’s books? And weren’t you going to create ebook versions?”
I laugh. Yes mistress muse.