Who would have thought that the place my muse speaks to me would be a twenty-year-old Suburban?
I often wonder if that pastime I enjoyed as a child, the Sunday drive that has been all but eliminated because of soaring gas prices, is the reason my muse comes to me when I’m behind the wheel. That’s when she whispers her secrets and gives me occasional pearls of creativeness.
She likes it best when I’m driving with my children, a cacophony of music, song and laughter filling the space. Maybe it’s because it’s a place of happiness and expression. My children feel it though I don’t think they’ve named it as I have because this is when they share their thoughts and ideas with me, too. It matters not how long or short the drive is. My creative muse comes along for the ride, even if she all she has to share with me is her time.