I posted on Facebook earlier in the week that I had three buds on my purple-flowered rhododendron. Mid week, after all the heat, humidity and no rain, they were looking extremely droopy. However, I’m happy to report that they are doing marvellously now.
Now my plant might not be as large as the ones in Quarriers Village but at the rate it’s growing every year, it won’t be long before it’s a big as a tree.
It’s still a bit too early to tell but I think my muse (aka George) has come home. I was working on a short story last night and I felt like I was being watched. The hubby was the only other person in the house at the time and he was working on genealogy on the other computer. The dog was asleep on his bed. Well, I’m assuming the dog was sleeping because he was doing a fine job of snoring. Besides, the feeling I had was more like someone was peering over my shoulder more or less reading what I was writing.
I firmly believe my house is haunted. It’s well over one hundred years old so surely at least one person died there. I’ve had a few encounters in the middle of the night with apparitions, spirits if you will – and not the kind that come in a bottle – those kind are a totally different story.
So, back to the feeling of someone peering over my left shoulder. Where I felt it from, the only thing behind me there is my laser printer and a case of paper. So I think it was George just checking to make sure I was actually writing something and not just goofing off.
I have forewarned my hubby that if he hears me talking to myself and the name George is mentioned, it’s only me arguing with my muse and he’s not to worry unless we get extremely loud and start throwing things! I doubt it will come to that but you never know.
My muse is missing in action. I thought at first it was off sulking because I wanted to go in one direction with my writing and it wanted to go the opposite way. We’ve hit impasses before but they’ve never lasted this long. Previously, one of us (mostly me) has come slinking back all apologetic.
However, this time it’s different. I’ve offended my poor muse – big time! I hoped my recent weekend away would give us some time apart and it would be waiting impatiently for my return, ready to smack me into writing submission. It wasn’t.
I’ve looked in the closets, under the beds, in the garage, the garden shed and it’s not in any of those places.
I’ll bring flowers, a nice bottle of wine and maybe even some chocolate to our reconciliation meeting if it means us getting back into a working relationship.
So if you should happen to see my muse wandering about aimlessly, looking lost, dejected and rejected and will you please send it home?
You can tell it, too, that if it comes home, I will love it and hug it and squeeze it and call it George.
My Scottish roots and writing by Melanie Robertson-King