The Muse

The muse came Tuesday. I was in the shower. She left a note. It said: One hour.

I missed the hour. I was on a call. She sent a follow-up. I missed that, too. All.

Thursday she texted: Last chance. I mean it. I was writing something else. She didn’t mean it.

She showed up Sunday with a full idea — characters, themes, the ending, the fear,

the hook, the heart, the title, the shape. I said hold on and she made her escape.

I chased her down the hall of my brain. She ducked through a door marked 3 a.m. again.

I said, Fine. I’ll wait here. She peeked back through and said: Now we’re clear.

I made the thing. It wasn’t quite right. She shrugged and said: Ship it tonight.

I shipped it. It flew. One woman in Perth said: This one’s true.

The muse was unmoved. She was already gone — knocking on doors down the hall. Moving on.

That’s her whole job. To show up. To leave. To make you chase her so you don’t stop to grieve.

She’s not here for you. She’s here for the work. (Same thing, really.) (Same thing.)