I have to write tonight. Park my ass in a chair. Do it. Write, Bitch!

I'm kidding. Not about having to write, but about this militaristic approach. It would send me to Facebook, Yogurtland, Nordstrom's (roughly, in that order) faster than I could type "procrastination."

I think it might work for dudes.

In "The War of Art," Steven Pressfield writes:

“The artist must be like that Marine. He has to know how to be miserable. He has to love being miserable. He has to take pride in being more miserable than any soldier or swabbie or jet jockey. Because this is war, baby. And war is hell.” (68)

I beg to differ.

Not that I don't find this attitude kind of hot in a Hemingway, alpha male, Daniel Craig kind of way. But dude's do things that don't occur to me...

Sure, you can approach the muse like a warrior. But a warrior is trained to kill. Why would you want to inflict violence on the Muse(s)? I prefer to give them space, let them appraoch me with ease and grace, like a butterfly. I don't want to scare them off, or make them think I'm trying to possess them, put them in a cage, make them sing for me. They know that can never happen. But first I have to chill out, get super cell-phone free, stop thinking about shoes, the user experience chaos of Facebook, that crack in my ceiling, and give them space, let them know I'm surrendering control.

Because without them (I think there's a posse) I will turn the creative dream into road kill.

Just for today, I respect the Muse(s).