Courting the Muse
The Muse arrives when I turn out the light,
And if I am lucky stays through the night.
She often sticks around until it is tomorrow,
Leaving a stream of words for me to borrow.
The muse is a fleeting lady. Although she’s forever late to the party and the first to leave, I never bar her entrance. Still, the more I struggle to catch her, the more she eludes me. A surefire way to scare her off is to overthink her, but for the sake of this blog, I’ll try to pin her down.
The best time to court the muse is just before drifting off to sleep. She’s great at jumping from one dream and landing in another. She’s quite the pest when she has a mind, leaving me no choice but to get up and write. After all that interrupted sleep and worn to a frazzle, I find the tease has left me flat.
Music is the best bait for trapping the muse. She’s partial to groups like the Cocteau Twins, a little Bossa Nova, and anything Billie Eilish. She’s been known to rock out to Jagger and to rap with Eminem. It’s raw emotions that attract her. The dark, theatric In the Nursery lured her into showing up for a Gothic Horror. Too much of a good thing, though, on any given day, causes her to drop in her tracks. There is such a thing as playing a song to death.
To tempt the muse back to the land of the living is to let her get her teeth on some juicy research. The more exploration, the merrier she dances. Fact is, she’s kept me up for hours on end. All that food for thought makes her shine, makes her gleam. The trick is to know when to stop. Too much hanging out with her makes me forget to start writing. Then neither of us wins.
When I can’t find the muse for any length of time, I resort to drastic measures. I read lots of poetry, draw pictures, and even write by hand. I search my brain for the right word to jar the muse back into existence. Sleep-deprived, I fall into bed. Just when I think I’ll never see her again, I awake refreshed. Lo and behold, there she is in all finery, waiting for me with strong coffee and a swift kick into action. My muse is back!
Madison receives acclaim for running a talent agency for people with disabilities, but she doesn't know how to take care of herself. When her altruism becomes life-threatening-a matter of either develop healthy habits or die-she joins a reality TV show that pairs her with hot, raven-haired Brandon. He is witty, sexy, and her teacher. That makes him off limits.
After a successful run on a soap opera, Brandon stepped away from empty fame and now focuses on his work as TV's most noted health teacher. He has one fast rule-never fall for a student. But when he meets Madison, their chemistry is combustible. There's no hiding their conflict or their attraction, especially when it's all caught on film.
Find her latest book on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Kobo.
How about an excerpt from That April in Santa Monica:
“Don’t you feel the sun’s energy balancing and healing you?”
What Madison felt was Brandon’s body heat radiating through her, tightening her muscles, skimming up her spine. That kind of warmth should come with a warning— exposure might cause side effects. Maybe she could have blamed it on chemistry or like attracting like— called it a lethal injection. She was dying for want of him.
She managed to say, “I see a halo around the sun.”
“Feel it vibrate?” he asked, turning to look at her.
Somehow, she didn’t think watching the sky had anything to do with it. The heat had gathered at the sweet place between her legs— another side effect of her being close to him. If this didn’t end up in a kiss, she didn’t think she’d be able to bear it.
Drawing in a long shaky breath, she said, “I do feel the vibration.” Oh, did she!
“Being out in the middle of nature, with the birds and the sea creatures, it does something to a person, don’t you think?”
“Amen to Mother Earth,” she said dreamily.
“There’s harmony in the sounds.” His breath seemed to have caught in his throat.
“Yes, a more beautiful melody could not exist.”
“Do you feel your eyes blur? It’s the sun cleansing you.”
Cleansing? Try heating up as if some crazy so-and-so had switched on the gas.
She moaned, “My eyes have become pools of marvel.” No, that wasn’t right. They were pools of longing, no mistaking.
