Why I Killed My Muse ... And You Should Too
Below is a MRR and PLR article in category Writing Speaking -> subcategory Writing.
Why I Let Go of My Muse ?" And Why You Might Too
Summary:
I’m considering dedicating my next book to the memory of my muse. This dedication might serve as a warning to other muses teetering on the brink and as inspiration for writers suffocated by their own. May my experience help others find harmony.Article Body:
Last night, under the quiet cover of midnight, I gently bid farewell to my muse and laid her to rest in my back garden. Today, I’ll plant roses to mark the spot. No one will ever know, and I’ll finally be free to create as I wish.So, why did I take such drastic action? My muse had been a source of numerous gifts over the years, guiding me through dark times and celebrating the joyous ones. She had often inspired me to reach new heights. Knowing this, why would I let go of such inspiration?
I had my reasons...
It began subtly. As I typed at my keyboard or curled up with a notebook, she perched on my shoulder, as muses often do. “Are you sure you meant to write that?” she’d whisper. “That’s not the best description,” she’d critique. Her constant questioning became stifling.
I started writing in secret, sneaking in paragraphs while she was distracted. If a newspaper lay open on the kitchen table, she’d become occupied with critiquing it, giving me precious moments to write without her interruptions. Yet, inevitably, her mocking would return. “Can't you find a better way to approach this?” she’d chide. “That’s been done before.”
Soon, I spent more time defending my words than writing. As my productivity slowed to a crawl, each choice was overanalyzed, giving her more opportunities to criticize. Deadlines loomed, ideas simmered, but I avoided the computer. I cleaned the house, read for hours, and planned a new garden. The need to write was building, but her judgmental eyes followed everywhere. I’d turn away with a sigh, seeking other distractions.
When I could no longer resist the urge to write, I locked her away and enjoyed a wonderfully productive morning. Pleased with my progress, I released her later, but it made her cruel.
She awaited my return, glasses perched low on her nose, armed with a red pencil I had never owned. My morning’s work was marked with brutal strokes of red. Overwhelmed, I acted on impulse.
Perhaps the details are best left unsaid. For now, old-fashioned roses with lush aroma and delicate shades will inspire and comfort.
Despite late hours and physical exertion, today I awoke refreshed, fingers flying across the keyboard. Old projects found completion, and new ones were born. Writing feels joyful and rewarding again.
I’m considering dedicating this next book to the memory of my muse. It might serve as a warning to muses at risk of overreach and inspire writers to break free from creative constraints. Perhaps, through my experience, others will find a harmonious path.
You can find the original non-AI version of this article here: Why I Killed My Muse ... And You Should Too.
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