Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Invocation of The Muses

Sing Muses

of the anxious suburban mom would be your servant for NaNoWriMo. Let her words and her chipped fingernail polish be meet and right in thy sight.

Let her herniated cervical disc be as a 20-year-old, plump, nourished and bouncy and not painful as she writes, hunched over late at night after the children have gone to bed, and her husband too.

The disc, it has been painful. For the pain she has received several spinal blocks. There appears to be no god of herniated cervical discs though one thinks of Shiva, destroyer of worlds, Muses, could you introduce her? Like if you know Shiva, like if you know if he wants a sacrifice of 19th century British novels to make the pain go away and to restore her to health so that she may continue to read 19th-century British novels in bed without her hands going numb?

That would be a great. And not such a sacrifice.

She is your humble servant, but no so humble that she doesn't have aspirations to write 50,000 words in one month. Laugh not Muses. You extend your favors to heros with chutzpah and she would rather than the laundry, the dishes, and the six-year-old's homework, do this.

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