I was asked today, by someone I greatly respect as a member of the "trying to get published" writing world, why I hadn't started a book or a collection of essays to attempt to break into the literary mainstream. My response, half-wit that it was, went like this: "I'm disenchanted with the whole thing and am quite content to sit here until my Muse decides to smack me upside the head with a Thesarus." Funny as it is - I don't know if I quite believe it. Am I really disenchanted? Or am I just burned out from trying to be nice and entertaining all the time - and - if so - is that really such a bad thing? What's wrong with turning a smile onto a world that is so full of cynacism that it can't bend over to tie its own shoes? Worse yet, am I one of those bloated, pompous, self-important people that watch the news just to be able to get the jokes of the late night commediennes?
I'd like to think that I'm not.
I'd like to also think that things like beautiful, inspiring muses do exist - if not just in theory so as to squish out the anti-muses of self-doubt and self-loathing.
I'd also like a pickle. But that's a whole other story entirely.