My muse disappeared a month ago and has not been sighted since. My ability to write has been immobilized in the worst way since I began my writing avocation in the second grade. Yes, I can still write emails and Facebook posts, as well as shopping lists and technical writing for my job, but when it comes to those topics I'm passionate about, I've been neutralized.
For a time, FeliciaEvita was not even on life support. I shut down the entire operation, although not the concert-going pursuits. The plan was to reconstruct my website on another platform with web hosting while my muse took off for a well deserved vacay. It didn't happen. It's a long story. As you can see, I changed the wallpaper, a feat that took all of five minutes.
By the time I was realized that my muse hadn't returned, search parties had already ensued. Some of my friends thought I had "de-friended" them from my blog because they couldn't access it. I got text messages, emails, phone calls, and voicemails. People made off-the-cuff comments at parties, and friends assaulted me in Costco ... "what is going on???"
"Operations," using the term loosely, are back up because one of my musician friends more or less begged. And I just have to interject, to the two of you who didn't inquire but who I consider to be my most rabid and regular readers, I must say that I appreciate you re-upping my stats now that FeliciaEvita is back online. Shucks ... my privacy policy will make it impossible for you to learn what your inquiring minds really want to know. Surely there's a song about that.
I still have an ominous, heavy feeling, kind of like a brick in my chest. Lack of confidence? Yes, even though it's unwarranted and even though I never give up on anything even when common sense would dictate such. My most belovedly arrogant, critical, Ivy league friend loves my writing (he'd be proud I called him arrogant, truly). Links to my blog as published by others have FeliciaEvita posts listed before the Salt Lake Tribune or City Weekly. That alone should speak volumes. Fear of failure? or ... fear of success? or both? yes, yes, yes. I'm not normally like this. I hope it's not a communicable disease like Chicken Pox or you all are doomed.
One day several weeks ago, I threw a well worn notepad that I keep by my bed into my purse. At lunch time, I bolted down to Barnes and Noble, where I sat and read my well-scrawled tome. By mid-pad, I was bawling with emotion. Yes, my own writing got to me. All the compliments in the world couldn't compare to me raining tears on my handwriting in the midst of the massive fiction section. Take that, Danielle Steele.
Okay, so I'm back. Not with a vengeance or anything. And to be honest, not with my muse. But I'm back because I have known for years and decades that my life purpose is to write well enough to move you. Maybe something I say will make you want to go to a concert and love listening to music you've never heard before. Or maybe I can make you laugh and cry, at once. For the talented and intriguing musicians of Utah, who deserve so much more credit than the passing mention they get in the newspaper, and for you, my readers, I will find my dancing muse and we will get back to it.
And now, I have a favor to ask. I need hugs, love, and understanding. Really. It isn't easy climbing out of a hole. And my muse ... if you see her, please let me know.
