The Muse and Self-Abuse

Once again, I find myself conflicted.

On the one hand, I’ve become increasingly convinced that I am not destined to spend my whole life trying to be a writer, and that my real passion lay with music. Of course, coming to a simple conclusion is not something I can do, and no sooner did I reach this end than I felt the desire to sit down and start writing prose again.

I didn’t actually get any words down on the page, since I am still without the next big idea I’ve been waiting for, and I’m not about to bend my own rules and write just for the sake of writing. Until I get an idea I find worthy of spending the time it will take to finish, I’m not going to allow myself to start down the rabbit hole of false promises.

What it does do, however, is plague me with a question I have yet to be able to answer. Why is it that the medium I feel more comfortable working in is the one I have a harder time putting on display, while the one I originally took up for the sake of shutting people up is the one I’m proud of and eager to share?

Something about that contradiction feels wrong to me, as though the answer should be easily seen, but I’m just too dumb to sort through the fog and find it. Whatever that truth might be, it now puts me in the awkward position of eagerly waiting for the next idea to come along, instead of putting it out of my mind until that day came.

Now I have something to be neurotic about. Oh joy.