To be able to say that something is on your mind and then say it is a luxury. A hard luxury, but a luxury nonetheless. Ironically, in the civilized world this luxury is hard to come by – you can’t just say what’s on your mind all the time, especially when you’re in a position of responsibility. That’s been brought home to me in many ways this week. Oddly, it’s this same week that I’ve been seized by this intensive desire to write. I’ve written most of an essay for English that’s not due for another eight days. I’ve written out discussion notes for my History class reading until I found myself writing notes that were longer than the article. I’ve written character sketches for my half-baked novel and Platonic-inspired discourses on the contents of a Diet Coke bottle. In short, I’ve written a lot in the past couple days.
Correction: I’ve written a lot of stuff in the past couple days. Stuff that I will probably revise until it’s unrecognizable or throw out once it serves its purpose. While I enjoyed and enjoy writing the stuff, throwing out this stuff is an important part of my writing process – a sort of psychological distancing.
Or so I tell myself. I think it’s really so I can fool myself into thinking, a couple months down the road, that the things that I have written have sprung, fully formed, into being. Like Athena from Zeus’ forehead. So it’s going to be hard, when I eventually have to evaluate my portfolio for this Minor. I’ll be forced to acknowledge that the elusive idea of the Muse is a scam. That won’t be as hard to come to terms with as it could be. For one, I’ve never pictured my theoretical Muse to be on level with Athena.