A.A. Milne needed nothing other than a new nib on his pen. G.K. Chesterton could write an essay on the subject of lying around in bed. Hillaire Belloc found a wellspring of information in reading newspaper advertisements. Mark Twain’s own muse was a tireless slave driver.
I too had a muse once. She left me for a more promising candidate, no doubt.
I was prolific once, but seem to have run out of grand ideas and the will to realize them. My muse used to be close at my metaphorical side, whispering endless ideas into my figurative ears that were all realized, more or less, back in my bright-eyed, innocent, pre-college days.
I should have known this would happen. She warned me, “Once you go to college, you’ll abandon me. You’ll never have any time for me.”
I assured her that this would certainly not be the case.
She didn’t believe me. She knew more than I did. What a fool I was.
Her prophecy came true. I willingly consigned my soul over to the tireless slave-driver of education, and only became less receptive to my muse. At last, she disappeared altogether.
I have no prospect of winning her back anytime soon. She may be waiting until I become more sensible, and give up on all this education nonsense.
Now all I can do is heave a great sigh of hopelessness and go back to my books. I can’t write anymore, I’ve lost my inspiration.
Not only are my creations few, but they are lifeless and lackluster.
I have lost my muse.