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K. S. Mahony's Blog


Monday, November 7, 2005
A blog?

Oh my god, I'm doing a blog. What in hell?

Erm. What better place to start, on a board about writing and reading, than lamenting the fact that I Can No Longer Write. Which is probably why I'm writing a blog-thing. It's free and The L Word hasn't started yet - I have half an hour to go until my late night relationship tv fix.

So yes, here I sit, at night, in front of the screen mindlessly loading sffworld pages when I really want to write. There's a small additional problem in that Word won't actually open, so I'm screwed, but aside from that.

Alas.

The reasonsounds ridiculous. It reallydoes - so ridiculous it belongs in a late night relationship show. I'm toldthat my belief in this reason isa self-fulfilling prophecy, or a matter of disclipine. As if I could wipe the slate and be myself again, and be able to write. Clap my hands and bam - I'm ok.

The reason? I lost my muse.

Yes, yes, a cliche. An excuse.

Sadly no: it's the reason. His name is C and I lost him and haven't been the same since. Have you ever watched water pouring from a vase, in a swirl, away, down the sink? I think of that when I think of my writing, and myself. He went, and I changed irrevocably. No drama - pure fact. I woke up different. The thing is, I can't accomodate my difference to include a muse-revamp.

If I want to write the only thing that comes out is him. The odd thing is I don't want the guy - it's not about the guy himself - nothing so sordidly shallow. It's about Unresolved Grief, Muses and Loss. (Title for a good weepy novel?)

No, when I say muse I don't mean I can only write about him, I mean I can only write from him. A muse is a place. He is my place - this is a distinction I am finding next to impossible to communicate. Not about, from.


I, in my writer's group (which has felt farcical quite frankly, with me attending withno contributionmonth after month), have tried to work this out. I'm cagey when it comes to discussing it - the groups contains some of my closest friends so it isn't too personal - no, it's that I avoid dealing with painful things. Ostrich syndrome. Couple that with the fact that the concept is foreign. How can a muse be a place?

Honestly, I could tell someone I had cancer with a smile on my face and laugh it off.So, I lost the love of my life? So what? I recovered, I have a great relationship nowwith a muchbetter person. What reason is there for that loss to affect me, and my cursed non-writing, this much?

Ah yes, why. It just is. It's always been, with all things Ca case of 'it just is.' He is my loss and my place.

Doesn't help he's on the other side of the world - no face to face closure going to happen anytime soon. No 'why the hell can't I write about anything but you so I don't write at all' questions to be leveled at his indifferent smile.

Obsession? I imagine it looks that way. More like a gong-strike disaster; a forlorn muse.

I've always written - it has been my carthasis, my help in low-times (of which there have been many), my consolation, my late-night friend. I have felt at times like a channel, finding words already written and me just a messenger. I miss this - it's like having a permanently open wound, all the time, leeching spirit away.

Ah, perhaps I can write my loss in boring little entries that no one except J will read (heh, I know you will dear) and understand- with the risk of anonymous strangers poking their heads in from time to time. A form of risky carthasis. The risk of exposure and hidden vulnerability.

Posted by K. S. Mahony 2005-11-07 05:26:03




 

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