Screw you guys. Meaning me guys. She has packed up her legos and gone home. (My muse is an eight-year-old girl in combat boots and with a crooked front tooth, who speaks in pirate when she gets excited.)
I get why she's mad. Making up stories used to be fun. We used to do it just to entertain ourselves. And as I get closer and closer to having my fingers pried from their death grip on my MFA program, the pressure and expectations I've been putting on us and the stories we make up together have been ratcheted up steadily higher. And higher. After all, all this time and money and sacrifice and scary amounts of debt... all riding on the hope that maybe, just maybe, we might learn to be really freaking good at this. Good enough that someone, even lots of someones, might start paying us to do this, so we can have more time to make up still more stories and there are only six months yet of paid access to full run of the island of misfit toys and holy crap we're running out of TIME!
!!!
Until alluva sudden? Yeah. All stress and no fun. All work and no play. And therein lies the problem. 'Cause all work and no play is no way to work creatively. And I know this. But still, I lost sight of it for a while. And here I am, scratching my head and trying to figure out how best to make amends.
Dear Crooked Tooth, I'm sorry I acted like a butt. As my first peace offering, I solemnly swear that I will make time every week to play. No matter how busy I think I am. In good faith, I have begun leaving a trail of monster-shaped bread crumbs leading back to the door of our clubhouse. Please see Exhibit A:
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| Exhibit A, brought to you by the letters C-H-O-M-P-A & Z |
Take your time. Until you decide you're good and ready to forgive me and come back, I will be here every day running amok with our Crayolas and piecing together one of our silliest, funnest stories yet. Yanno, the one that made our eyes get like this o_O when we thought it up, 'cause it was THAT awesome.
Don't be too long, though. Without you, this story will be no fun at all and will probably start smelling up the joint like one of Stinkertina's dirty gym sock and fishbone sandwiches. Ew.
Your pal,
JW
