Unfulfillment

There is one problem when it comes to being a night owl. Whether I intentionally throw responsibility out the window or simply glance at the clock with the horrifying realization I’ve allowed myself to stay awake for the dreaded hour, I find myself overcome by an undeniable, driving compulsion to write. Many long for this feeling, for the rush of euphoria that accompanies the potential development of little plot-bunnies hopping out of their metaphorical skins. If I were one to conform, I might be able to find secret satisfaction in the stolen darkness.

Unfortunately, no matter how deep and obnoxious The Itch, the Muse rarely provides concrete inspiration for all her nagging. And that’s my one problem.

So I sit and stare at my computer screen, a blank document opened on Word, soft strains of Travis filling my ears as I drum my fingers against the keyboard. Travis is an interesting blend of folk and alternative rock, depending on the song. At the moment there seems to be an unmistakable throw-back to Simon and Garfunkel. I certainly hope it’s intentional. The similarities are almost too identifiable, right down to the specifically placed “ahhhs” in the chorus.

I find The Itch is particularly strong after I’ve spent a few days reading New York Times’ Best Sellers. I have to confess—more times than not, I’m overly wary of the New York Times’ Best Sellers list. Maybe it’s just the English Literature Major snob coming out in me, but I tend to think a lot of the stuff on that list is kind of crappy. Conventional, relatively unoriginal, and more often than not, a predictable makeover of an already popular classic in some form or another. Somewhere, deep inside of me, I have to recognize that relentless force that insists I could contrive something at least as good—probably better, should I take the time to concentrate on it. Like that line from Little Women, “I intend to astonish you all.”

Look out New York Times’ Best Seller List: that means you.

But for all my good intentions, a few glaring facts linger. First of all, though inspired by insipid plot-lines and undeveloped characters, I remain the unfulfilled, unpublished author while those Best Sellers pad the wallets of B-grade writers.

Of course they don’t know they’re B-grade writers yet because I haven’t emerged. I’m just waiting to make my entrance, waiting for the right moment. You know, for dramatic effect.

Secondly, I have this problem where I start to write like the authors I’m currently reading. So while my writing tends to have a relatively steady “voice,” the way in which that “voice” is presented depends entirely on the initial source of The Itch. This may or may not be beneficial. On the one hand, those “voices” are popular, hence their Best Seller titles. On the other, one of the reasons I long to write something mind-blowing is to prove to the world the drivel on that ever-respected List is exactly that. Why no one reads these books and feels something missing is beyond me. Maybe they do. Maybe they have a little hole in their heart they can’t explain. Don’t worry, gentle readers. Your day will come when my day will come.

Most importantly, it seems my lack of creativity is solely based on my dysfunctional relationship with my Muse. All artists supposedly have their own Muse. Andy Warhol had Edie Sedgwick. Colin Firth had Scarlett Johansson—at least in Peter Webber’s version of Girl with the Pearl Earring. Not that I want a socialite for a muse, per se. I’ve always thought it a little odd that people sometimes find their muses in beautiful people the masses can never hope to become like. If I were to choose a muse for myself maybe it would be someone like Jonathan Rhys-Meyers. One would think he would be a perfect muse, what with his matchless beauty and all. But it’s that very matchless beauty that presents a problem: he is simply too beautiful for words. So apparently he’s a dreadful muse because how can anybody come close to truly praising those looks and that talent on paper? Or at least on a blank Word document.

Singing praises of people you don’t know (ie. celebrities) is weird anyway…

And apparently you can’t actually choose a muse for yourself. There’s either inspiration, or there isn’t. I wish I could at least catch a glimpse of my muse, however. It’s there. I know it’s there, elusive as it is. If it wasn’t stealthily hanging around I wouldn’t be sitting here with my blank Word document and Travis.

I wonder if I just try to wait it out the feeling might pass. Either the feeling might pass (sealing my fate to never achieve full self-actualization in the process) or maybe it will just build up so intensely inside me that one day I sit down and positively burst with life-changing insight.

I do mean to astonish you all. I just wish I knew how.