OK, OK, I will say it myself: after having resisted the urge of the Christmas post, I have fallen miserably for the commemorative 1-year blah-di-blah-di-blah.
What shall we do to mark the event? A guest appearance from a friend's blog (a relationships and wine post with Fondi di Bottiglia)? A special episode with a shattering revelation (Male Friend #1 is my long-lost twin brother, snatched from hospital after birth)? Maybe not.
Anniversaries are always tricky. The Amarcord danger lurks in the dark (What were we like at the time? What have we done in a year? Where are we going?), and we all know that I don't do the looking-back thing. Yet, how did we land on these shores? What on earth got me writing in the first place? Bizarre EI experiences, like the ex boyfriend in drag that made so many laugh? My more or less secret friends with their stories, crises and adamant assertions? My family? My cats? My (now dead) swans? The ducks?
According to an article I read some time ago, female writers' muses are mainly doting husbands and sugar daddies: dedicated, devoted, often older companions who attend to the whims of the unstable artist. Who provide them with a psychological and physical centre that allows the craziness of mood swings to crystallize on the written page. If you think about it, it can’t be much of a fun job, and miles away from the histrionic, unreliable, beautiful nymphs who generally accompany male artists and end up immortalised in eternal opuses.
I am no artist, which is probably why I don’t have a muse. On the other hand, since I refuse to write when I am sad, this year-worth of blog exists thanks to the love and kindness of some really special, wonderful people, who, when I most need it, come to my rescue without proffering a word. A hug, a dinner in a (not too nice for me) restaurant, unrequested help, a compliment, my favourite comic books, a common project: big little tokens of affection, of unexpected, bizarre love that make my life worthy.
No sugar daddies needed.
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