Call On a Poet to Find Your Muse.

Has something like this happened to you? You’re staring at the blank page and it’s winter there. Blank as a fallow field under snow. Everywhere else is spring. The window. The book on your desk by your writing pal. The kittens mewling on your Facebook feed.

Some call it writer’s block but the feeling could be called by other names. Envy. Doubt. Boredom. Impatience. Lack of inspiration, you settle on.

Why does everything else seem so new and your writing, well, it seems so old or trite or simply lacking. Literally.

That answer doesn’t matter. Only the solution to the problem does. You need a fixer. Someone who can bottle what the spring promises and pour it over what’s fallow and frozen on the page. And make something good grow.

You need a muse. They’re mighty hard to find, you’ve heard. But is it true once they come round, writers’ pens glide like blades on ice, like wings in the air? That’s the kind of muse you want.

Poets have those, don’t they? And you know a poet. You text her your deep desire.

How do you find your muse? she repeats back. You call her.

Like, on the phone?

You call her by her many names.

Many names. Okay.

How about the name of your first pet.

Matilda the fish?

The first pet who died on you. Tell me about that pet.

Okay, Ms. Macabre. Still Matilda. She had a rainbow on her back when she died.

Good. Now name your last car.

Ouch. Totaled Taurus.

Nice alliteration. Keep going.

Let me find my pen. Did you know I met my finance at the doctor’s office after that accident?

What’s her name.

Beverly.

What does she call you when it’s just the two of you together in the dark?

Heart sweet. She likes things backwards sometimes. I think there’s a pen here somewhere.

What do you call your heart when she’s gone.

Unsweetened.

The feeling when she’s back.

A giant cookie from the bakery, with frosting. Lots of frosting.

Tell me the name for your favorite cookie during the pandemic.

Lemon meringue. I baked it myself. Grated the lemon rind myself.

What do you call a grated lemon rind.

Wait, I found my pen. Let me write this down. It’s zest. Zest, zest, zest!