There’s a writer living in my head. My writer has a Muse. Sadly, my Muse has the soul of Hamlet. Tragedy gives her life. Only in the face of tragedy will the Muse raise her head from her hand, open her eyes and then demand of me to give words to her burgeoning, relentless soulful keening. She pitches an unrestrained tantrum in my brain until I finally give in, sit down and tell the tragic tales that must be told in haste before the next slumber.
How I wish my Muse, instead, had the soul of Feste. “Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.” I long to have a Muse inspired by comedy. I could have such fun. I could mischievously play with phrases, compose shrewd satire, learn to be a clever “corrupter of words” and invent whimsical puns. I could spend my days playing the fool, finding even better jokes to play on myself and others with a delightfully witty pen.
I envy those inspired by a Muse of Comedy. After all, life is a comedy, right my girl? Although I do think the line between comedy and tragedy is somewhat fuzzy. Shakespeare knew that even the best comedy was only steps away from becoming a tragedy.
Alas, you can’t control The Muse.
I miss you, my precious daughter.