On a fall day,
the girl approaches me,
“Mrs. Woodall, are you going to do NANO this year?”
Happily she waves a notebook in the air, showing me her set up
thinking I’m a kindred spirit, a fellow writer.
I excuse myself, “I don’t do fiction,” like I can throw that out there
the same way I say, “I can’t sing.”
My singing is bad–I’ve tried.
My fiction. I haven’t–not so much.
Fiction I haven’t attempted
since middle school.
I wonder if the writer’s voice of my fiction
would be better than my singing voice–
it couldn’t be worse.
This blog is forlorn,
waiting for my words.
A novel in a month ain’t gonna happen.
Weekly writing–is that too much?
I write–don’t I?
Monthly school calendar.
Walk through evals.
Book club stuff.
Modeling and scaffolding for kids.
Isn’t that writing?
Does that count?
Where is my muse?
Over here–I’m in need
of some inspiration.
I am walking in the valley,
words don’t come.
I type and delete.
Thoughts never complete.
as I try to find my muse.
Maybe I will say yes to writing again.
and be on the writing project teaching team.
Maybe that will inspire me to seek out
the writer that lies dormant inside
instead of waiting for the muse
that might never come
unless I put my fingers on the keys
and go through the motion
seeking inspiration of germinating thoughts
instead of waiting for the muse to nurture my soul.
I try to make it each Tuesday
to my blog
going through the motions
the muse will find me