The thieves stole my mojo. It was here, inside me, for many
years. I’d call it up and it would sit
on my shoulder and whisper words in my ear – words I could use to form
sentences and thoughts that made sense. Sometimes it lay dormant, like, when
the world was ending in 2020, and all I wanted to do was sit on the sofa and
chew my fingernails down to the quick, panicking in a quiet kind of
desperation. But it came back for a
short time. Enough for me to finish yet another draft of the book and send it
out for editing, and produce yet another draft, and then another, and now I
think I have a polished manuscript to send out. And send it out, I did. But it wasn’t mojo pushing me to keep fixing
it – it was my characters. They threw little hissy-fits every time I’d ignore
them.
A mojo clone provided mumbo jumbo every once in a while on a Tuesday when I
had my fiction writing class and needed a good scene to add to my dog
story. Then it went away, and I only had
thoughts that produced dung-like quality.
The thieves stole my comfort too. They stole my confidence. And my motivation.
And my love for walking. Oh, and my collagen. They stole a lot of my collagen
in exchange for a heat that boils me from the inside in a flash.
“Youth and beauty are gone one day, no matter what you dream
or do or say…” Heck of a line from Bob Seger.
His mojo was on that day, as was his pessimism. But hey, you need pessimism to find sanguinity.
I suppose I write today because I woke before the dawn and
walked the dog under the bright stars, the crescent moon shining a light on my
path and thought, “Boy, do I love this time of day.” The morning, the quiet,
the anticipation of experiencing something joyful. The hope, the gratitude, the
promise.
The thieves may have stolen my mojo but I’m on a quest to
get it back – today, I started looking on the hiking trails behind my house,
tomorrow I’ll find another path, and maybe, if I’m lucky, it will jump in front
of me, giggling, and then hop back on my shoulder so the thieves can look elsewhere.
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