Driving home today, I got the strong, overpowering fragrance of fresh cut alfalfa hay. It hit me like a strong draw on a pot plant, and I had to pull over for five minutes and just lay back and sniff. I love, love, love that smell. It’s what I like to call a “hay-high”.
Unfortunately, it also got my mischievous little muse squirming about in my brain, giving me ideas on my book. Now, the little winged insect never plants these treasures when it’s convenient. Oh no. She plants them like light weight seeds only sprinkled lightly on the soil so that the briefest wind can blow them away as I rush home before I forget them. At my age, I figure my memory has about a five kilometer radius, and I was about forty-five kilometers from home.
Of course, my almost getting a speeding ticket was all for naught. After unpacking my groceries, including the half thawed butterscotch ripple ice cream, the little wench disappeared back into her hole and I was left with confused, muddled prose. If I ever get my hands on that sneaky little fairy, I’ll wring her bloody neck!
What she had planted there was absolute beauty in words, too. Ah well.
Have you ever had that happen? You have no way of typing it when this brilliant idea hits you, and you can’t even travel back to medieval times and write it down on paper and pen because you never thought to put them where you can reach them. Do people still use pens?
My least favorite time for an active muse is three o’clock in the morning. You wake up, again with the next Pulitzer Prize in Literature playing out in your dream-soaked brain, but you are in that “body stone” that comes with that time of night. You know you should write it down. You know you have to get up and record it for prosperity before it fades with complete wakefulness, but darn it, the pillow is in the perfect position, the blankets wrapped around you like a custom made cocoon.
Sure enough, you drifted off again, only to have it fade with the dawn. It’s gone. And that naughty little fairy muse is nowhere to be found! Thank heavens it doesn't happen often.
I think she only likes car rides. She mocks me with her head hanging out the window, her tongue dripping saliva all over the upholstery. As soon as I pull into my small town and race dangerously down the main street in a frantic attempt to get home, terrorizing my poor neighbours, poof! There she goes, with the poplar fluff flying about like summer snow. I can still hear her tinkling laughter in the branches.
Do me a favour, will you? If you come across a “muse trap”, pick it up for me. I’ll pay you back.