I’ve come to the library to write.
I needed a place I could be by myself. The muse does not like the ever-present threat of interruption in a home with 3 young children and a loving husband. Only when they are all sleeping do the words flow smoothly, but that is when I should be sleeping, too.
I hear of women going to coffee shops to write. I never got that. I don’t drink coffee, and I vainly thought I could do this at home. I have all kinds of grand plans for courting the muse from my couch, of training the muse to not mind the constant chatter of children, the chance that they will interrupt. And I still plan to entice the muse to join me in the daylight hours, though my kids come first in those hours. I don’t know how this will work, because the muse seems to like my undivided attention.
But today I missed him–my muse–terribly. I felt that if I did not write soon, I would go insane. And I needed to work on my book, so I escaped to the library.
I am not calling this a failure on my part–failure to make my home a hospitable place for the muse. Oh, no. We are not going to go anywhere near starting what is supposed to be a productive writing session by claiming failure brought us here. We are calling this creativity. Courage. Ingenuity. We are calling this doing whatever it takes to release the pent up words that build in me hour by hour like pressure in a steam canner, but somehow will not release themselves without some cajoling.
The words started coming even on the short drive to our local library. I tried not to speed, to trust they would wait the 3 more minutes it would take to creep along main street under the speed limit, park, run across the snowy parking lot, find a desk, and open the laptop.
The library feels like a wonderful place to write. Our library is full of windows, it’s always as bright as the outdoors in here. And there is stained glass. Somehow I don’t seem to notice that when I’m here with three small children and a heavy bag of books on my arm. And there are words–words surrounding me, books upon books, voices of other successful authors, my personal cloud of witnesses, all say the same thing–”It can be done, and you will do it, if you will embrace the writing life”.
Today, the writing life meant escaping to the Library.
I was only able to escape for just 40 min, but it made all the difference in my day and my soul. I was made to write, and I’d let the holidays crowd out time for writing until I began to doubt I would even be able to get the words out. I felt so much better after having creatively made room for the words to come again. I feel fully alive now.
How do you court the muse?