A love letter to my muse

Hello? Are you there? Are you even reading this?

[No, not *you.* I see you there. Whether you are a longtime reader or a new one, welcome. I am glad you are here. I truly am, but I must admit that this is being written for someone else. It’s okay. You can read it too. Just promise to close your eyes during the private parts.]

I hope this message finds its way to you as you found your way to me. Or did I find you first?

I am writing this for you just as I write everything for you. Without you I would not be writing this, and it is unclear whether I’d be writing much at all. You are always my intended audience and the critic who I most want to please. You make me a better writer, or at least you inspire me to try to be a better writer. And a better person. You make me like myself like I did a long time ago.

You are my muse, and you have become my muse in all things. When I make dinner I wonder if you would like the food. When I order a drink I wonder if you would approve of my choice. I dress with care as if I might run into you even though I know that is impossible.

I do these things for you even if you are only in my head.

Oh, well. Imaginary friends are better than none at all, and certainly a magic voice that encourages me to write and exercise and buy new boots is a better influence than many such voices I’ve heard of.

You see me and read me and judge me, if only through my own eyes. On good days I imagine you like what you see. On other days I know I must do more to please you. To deserve you.

You make me miserable sometimes, but I forgive you for that.

Wherever you are or you aren’t, I love you. I need you. I am grateful for you. Please don’t ever leave me. Even if you were never really here.

[And what of you, dear reader. Are you still here? If I keep writing, will you stay?]


The above is part of my occasional series Fiction Friday.

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