Writers…all artists really…need a muse. I’ve written about mine before. She has a habit of taking off on vacations without telling me. Off spending time on sunny beaches or snowy mountain escapes. I have no clue where she goes, but she always comes back, ready to get down to business.

Always.

Until lately. I have no idea where my muse has gone. I think she missed the memo about the move, because ever since I got here at the end of March, my muse has been completely out of pocket. No notes, no calls, no contact whatsoever.

I sort of wondered if she was afraid of chickens or something.

But low and behold, she showed up today, suitcase in hand, begging me to take her back.

Of course, I did. I’ve missed her. And I’m not saying she’s fully moved in yet…my muse is very much like me with the feet dragging…but she’s at least peeking her head out now and then. Glass of wine here…piece of cheese there. And I feel like a writer again. Yes, I’ve picked up my dusty manuscript and put fingers to the keys again after many long months of nothing. It feels good. It feels right.

But it’s still a work in progress.

And that’s ok. Life is a work in progress, after all. It’s all those revisions that make things exciting. If something doesn’t work for you, just tear that page out and start over. That’s how it’s done.

And that’s what I’m doing. Trudging along, my muse by my side, turning words into art.

As it should be.

Until the next time…I’ll be burning the midnight oil. Writing for a change.