A Writer Writes, Always!

There is a muse and she lives in my shower, giving me Shower Thoughts.  Her companion, the merry prankster (like Puck, only aquatic) lives in the tub.  He gives me ideas for beverages I thirst for and books to read while soaking....but only AFTER I've gotten in.

Shortly after giving birth the first time, overwhelmed with my full load of college classes, my full time job, and nursing every 2-4 hours, I started bringing a dictaphone into the morning shower.  The muse hadn't taken up residence yet.  I'd list groceries, errands, and many random unfinished or unstarted tasks on my AAA battery powered dictaphone; grateful that I never got some sort of mini shock from the small wet electronic device. 

The kids are all born now, and aging gracefully, I must say.  The 13 year old came down to see me when I returned home from work and an evening seminar at 10pm.  He again measured his height against mine, toe to toe. We agreed to go out for chocolate shakes when his height surpasses mine.  Could be tomorrow...he's that close.  

The 11 year old came down to see me too.  He'd been tossing and turning, so I told him to sing himself to sleep with "100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall."  He said, "Mom, you're strange!"  If he only knew what strange could be.  I'll guarantee you that he'll sing himself to sleep and the redundancy will have him crashed out before 92 Bottles.  I'll sing something sweet to him another night, not this one, and he knows it.  Otherwise he would have bargained harder and won me over.  In our house, no one is ever too old, or will ever get too old for songs, snuggles or  out-loud story reading.  (With  boys' screen time limited to 10 hours total between Friday and Sunday, out-loud stories remain rock stars on weeknights.)

I'm writing this night without my muse, but as Billy Crystal says in Throw Momma From the Train (what a wierd remake THAT was)......"A writer writes, ALWAYS!"  And there is some truth to the discipline that one must write it out, purge the pipe, even when the convenience of the fabulous shower muse is not there.  For the record, I'm certain her visage is like one of those Maxfield Parrish babes.  

And so I write on, looking forward to the beauty, sense and insight of a morning shower tomorrow.  My muse lives in the shower.  She moved in the day the dictaphone moved out.