Having High Expectations Could Be Your Downfall
Your relationship with your muse may determine your future success
I woke up alone.
The quiet stillness in my brain was unusual, even irritating. I snapped my fingers to test my hearing. The clipping sound broke the eerie silence and I closed my eyes, mentally scouring the vacuum that had stolen all signs of input.
I pulled the sheets over my head, terrified.
Apparently, sometime during the night my muse had left me — again.
While she’d gone AWOL before, eventually she always returned — when she damn well pleased and usually wearing a sly grin and bearing gifts.
But this time seemed different. Something about her absence had touched my soul, leaving me uneasy, on edge, and completely drained of optimism. I didn’t know what to do.
Departing without so much as a kiss on the cheek or a small note of explanation, I had no ideas whether “M” had made yet another intentional and short-lived departure. I inhaled deeply, desperate for a whiff of her trademark scent wafting in the air — fresh, clear, inquisitive, inspiring.
But that, too, was gone.
“M” had disappeared without a trace — almost as if she’d never existed at all.
My mind scrambled through the details of our last time together, frantic to uncover a clue or lingering thread of evidence — maybe something I’d said or done or overlooked.
I came up empty — a complete dead-end.
A desperate chill brought on goosebumps and a cold sweat — along with a heavy dose of panic. “M” had always been a reliable companion, a constant source of motivation — and pretty nice to have around. I wondered what I’d done to make her feel unwanted, even unloved. Why would she disappear without an explanation or a chance to talk things through?
What had made “M” so unhappy?
Several days went by. With no sign from “M,” I could only blame myself. As hard as it was to admit, I’d been the guilty party. Whether an unintended insult or a lack of praise, her absence was all my fault — and I knew it.
Maybe I’d pushed her too hard.
Perhaps my high expectations were more than she could possibly fulfill.
I’d forgotten how to appreciate “M,” and instead of spending quality time together to explore our thoughts and ideas in unison, I’d forced her over the edge — my own selfish agenda slamming the door to mutual communication.
Without realizing it, I had given her every reason to take a hike. Because I hadn’t afforded “M” the attention she needed — and deserved.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Without “M,” I was nothing — a nobody, invisible. So there I sat, empty, alone, and terrified — devoid of purpose or motivation. Without her by my side, I was unable to think.
In frustration, I fumbled through a few writing projects. But my efforts proved fruitless, resulting in unfinished paragraphs of disconnected thoughts, meaningless phrases, and bland, tasteless rhetoric staining a previously clean page.
I was totally screwed, because I knew the truth: I was on my own.
That fateful night, I tossed and turned in fitful stretches of restless sleep.
Plagued by nightmares, I winced as icy fingers clutched my rag-doll body and slowly dragged me into a cold, black void where unspeakable monsters played ping-pong with my severed head.
My dueling tormentors hurled me back-and-forth without mercy, a cacophony of raucous screeching piercing my eardrums, each discordant note spawning a jumble of disjointed words begging for purpose, meaning, and a reason to live.
I was frozen with fear, desperate for escape.
Suddenly, the heartless blows stopped and I floated in darkness, the jarring noise mercifully receding into the background.
Afraid to move or speak, I laid absolutely still, hoping my ruthless captors had found another way — another place — to release their rage.
What was that?
A lilting sound, far off in the distance. Soft, lyrical, barely audible. More of a feeling than an intelligible voice, I sensed rescue, deliverance — salvation.
Squelching my excitement, I realized it might be a cruel jest — my abductors having previously taunted me with whispers of freedom before subjecting me to a horrific salvo of deserved torture.
A gentle touch caressed my consciousness, lifting me from the darkness. My dismal thoughts were replaced with familiar comfort — a clean, fresh scent evoking a spark of curiosity, inspiration, and love.
Could it possibly be … her? Had “M” forgiven my transgressions and returned to offer me a chance at redemption?
“I’m here,” I called out anxiously. “And I promise I’ll make it up to you. Please … I need you. I want us to be together.” My voice broke in a strangled whisper.
Her answer soothed me with more than mere words, touching me in a way no other could. Just like before.
“M” had taken me back, welcoming me with an open embrace.
I’ve learned my lesson.
Never again will I take “M” for granted.
She’s as much a part of me as my memories and dreams. She is my past, present, and future. And while we may occasionally disagree about some silly detail in a setting or plot or protagonist, our relationship is much stronger now.
We’ve agreed not to allow our bond to crumble over the use of a comma or whether to allow our heroines to exhibit as much appreciation for muscular, blue-eyed bad-boys as they do for petite brunettes with flirty moves.
My muse was home to stay.
And hopefully, I’ll remember to behave — and remain worthy of her companionship.
Until next time,
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Jaye Frances is the author of the suspense thriller trilogy World Without Love. Her other books include The New Girl in Town, The Beach, The Kure, and Love Travels Forever. Storyteller, truth-seeker, and optimist, Jaye explores relationships, philosophy, and the complexities of life - a day at a time. Jaye’s books are available at JayeFrancesBooks.com