My confidence wavers. Self doubt creeps in insidiously. I am not a writer.
The keyboard sits there in silence. It mocks me. It dares me to put something down that anyone would want to read.
Inspiration is absent. Random, half baked thoughts spin. It's nothing I would want to share.
I can't do this. Nothing is clicking. It's not my day. Go for a run, she says.
I'm tired. I am weak. I don't want to. Do it anyway.
The door opens. Fresh air assaults me. Inspiration is out there, she tells me.
The legs turn. The lungs burn. My destination is unknown.
I labor. The hills are steep. The terrain is uneven.
She assures me the answers are out here. I don't see any. I keep running. I keep breathing.
Sweat pours out of me. The random, half baked thoughts disappear leaving a quiet mind. It's always quiet before the storm.
The quiet consumes me as the summit approaches. Gasping, I take a few more strides. I'm not done yet.
I grimace and grind a few more feet. Lightheaded and dizzy, I summit. I rise above it all.
The storm arrives and I have what I need. The idea crystallizes. The keyboard is miles away, but it can wait while I muse a bit more.
I would not be here without her. She's done so much for me. I worry that I won't ever be able to repay her.
I wouldn't have crested this hill. The idea would not have coalesced. She believed when I did not.
You could call her a muse, but she's much more than that. She knows all of my soft spots. The numerous chinks in my armor are all too visible to her.
She accepts them. She loves me despite them. I can't help but love her.
The least I can do is what she asks. I keep running. I keep writing.