Between Mr. Wrong and the Write Place

“The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.”- William Shakespeare, All’s Well that Ends Well

I found myself crying on the floor when it happened: the elusive ah ha moment.  I was discovering the after-effects of punch-drunk love and ironically the one responsible for the tears had been the first to suggest it:  “What is your passion?” he had asked over the phone.  Why don’t you write?” he added (or something along those lines).  Here I was obsessing about the state of our relationship and he was prodding me to notice my gift.  I was annoyed, but he had a point.

He was and is my muse.  Every encounter we’ve had has ended with words in my journal, in a .doc file, on pieces of whatever-paper-I-could-find (once, even on a plastic Moe’s cup).  He was the sole-impetus to the most important discovery of my life: I am and have always been a writer.  In anger, in lust, in passion, in excitement, in love, in wisdom, in foolishness, in honesty, in truth, in post-emotional disaster–in every state–I have written.

Pre-heartbreak, I had not happened upon the soulful meloncholy that now manages to escape the confines of my mind, filling blank sheets.  I used to be a sap.  At thirteen I wrote a song: “You’re All that I’ve Been Longing For”.  I was a lovelorn and rebellious teen with a penchant for writing about the state of unrelieved sadness and the want of things that would never be.

Part of me is still that sad girl; only now I want relief.  My perspective, interests, reading habits, subject matter, and my loving are evolving.  I am appreciative of the changes and I Amuse While I Muse is about taking you on the journey with me.  The journey to unearth my authentic voice, nurture my understanding of literature, and (hopefully unobtrusively) reflect my personal interests and preoccupations through fiction and poetry.

It is bitter and sweet that this writer’s itch was provoked by the artless questioning of a fleeing lover–who lit the match but did not stick around to smell the scent.  There will undoubtedly be traces of him as I walk, sometimes run, into this new world.  So it goes: a love ends; a career begins.  Life seems always to be teaching us to reside in the middle, and that is where I am: Between Mr. Wrong and the Write Place.


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