get the hell out of your own way {and write}

The muse has got an edge tonight. She doesn’t have a lot of extra time and she’s not in the mood for the usual bullshit.

You feel her come in on a breath through the open window and settle deep in this space. Like she owns it. It’s strange how she can be inside and outside and all around. All at once.

A shiver rises from the base of spine until skin tingles. Everywhere. You know what this means.

It is time.

No matter you are tired. No matter today and this week and this month have worn you down. No matter your bones ache. No matter your weary heart. No matter the undone chores or the unfinished work. No matter the cool white sheets calling you to slumber.

That has all changed, she says, now that I am here.

Sit down and write, she says.

And she says it in that way she’s always had. The way that lets you know nothing will be happening but whatever she decrees. Not tonight. This is how she works.

So you do as she says. Nothing good ever came of doing anything but this.

Her lips graze the back of your neck. She’s closer than you realized. Her voice, all honey and gravel and midnight summer rainstorms and the slightest hint of lonely, right by your ear.

Stop wasting time. Stop making excuses. Set the stage if you feel it’s necessary. Light the candles. Pour the whiskey. Your ritual matters because you believe it matters. So do whatever the hell you think you have to do to loosen the eternal hold you place on your magic.

Just don’t ignore me now.

Put on the music that brings to mind the blade slice and the rising smoke and the way bodies turn liquid when the desire gets that sharp and close. That music that feels like burgundy velvet and tastes like black market moonshine in a smoky underground jazz club from another era.  

Get up. She wants to dance. You knew she would. This was decided long ago, between you and her. Because flowing words demand fluid muscles in a body often locked tight. Hips loose enough for goddess spiral. There can be no tension tonight. This is about melting resistance. About spinning it down just so you can rise. This is all about the release of all things.

You’ll know you’re there when you can’t tell your pulse from the downbeat of the music. When you are one with all that there is. The music and the words and the want of it all.

Because you’ve got to want it. More than you have. You’ve got to want it like everything that just might happen if you lost all your inhibitions. You’ve got to need it like the sweet hit at the root of all your yearning. Like the way you crave the sound of her voice, raspy and low right next to your ear promising what comes next.

You’ve got to move with it, until the words become a dance of seduction. Until there is no more stillness and everything is desire.

Until you do not know any longer if you are doing the seducing or being seduced. Do not worry. It has never really mattered and you couldn’t change it anyway. Just give yourself over to the pull of it. The wanton desire. The holy unholy need. The sweet dance of dominance and submission and the way they live best so tangled you can’t figure where one ends and the other begins. The heat of creation-destruction-and-what-will-be-born-now-that-all-the-rest-is-destroyed.

Have you done as she instructed?

Good. You can begin.

the words will come hot and clear || jeanette leblanc #writingNow. All you need is those fingers. That blank page. Your beating heart. The energy pulse that travels lightening current across your skin.

It’s all right there for the taking in and giving over.

Bow your respect to the one who brings you here.

She nods back, in her own particular way.

You have done the work, she says, the words will come hot and clear now.

Now get the hell out of your own way.

AND WRITE.

Listen with me: {music for dancing with the muse} on spotify.

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