Friday, March 21, 2008


This face describes exactly how I'm feeling at the moment. Something has happened to my muse and I'm not sure what. Maybe she's dead. Oh no!

For those of you who don't understand the importance of a muse in writing, let me explain. I found the best description on Wikpedia, so just so you don't think I plagiarize, I'm giving them full credit.

" In Greek Mythology, 'the muses' are a sisterhood of goddesses or spirits..., who embody the arts and inspire the creation process."

I don't have room for the full sisterhood in my head, so I only use one. Although, I'm sure there's many more things worse than sitting down at the computer and finding that your mind has turned into a blank screen--its not as life-altering as some experiences--it's frustrating, nonetheless. I need my muse and hate when she abandons me.

Just a week ago, I came home from a writer's meet-up, totally enthused about making headway on my latest work-in-progress, but someone or something killed my muse. Either that, or she's gone AWOL. If that's the case, I doubt she's wandered very far because lately all she wants to do is eat.

There is no cure for a lost muse. You simply have to wait until she comes back and is ready to write. It angers me because I'm up to the task, yet she's the creative side I need--the person in touch with my characters, and the story flows through her.

I wonder if I should report this 'crime' to the police. She might be laying somewhere bleeding and injured. But then again, I might be overreacting. She's taken a hiatus before, but never for quite this long. I'm a worrier by nature, so maybe I'll give her a little while longer to come back.

Oh, wait...I think I see her. Or at least part of her. Whew...never mind the panic alert. I've found her with her head in the refrigerator and the biggest chunk of her talent hanging out. I'll see if I can get that part back in the chair and get started on finishing First Degree Innocence. I'm hoping to enter it in a competition and thus find a home for it. Here's a little snippet 'we' finished before she got hungry again and went on the prowl:

Carrie stood, frozen in place, still clutching her meager belongings, and watched the door click shut and the overweight guard waddle away. Finally, she turned and surveyed the narrow room. Graffiti littered the confining walls. Her gaze passed the metal bunk beds and rested on the lone lidless toilet, jutting from the back wall and visible to anyone walking by. Claustrophobia squeezed at her chest and tears threatened again. How much more degradation was yet to come?

“Welcome to Hell.” A gravely voice came from behind her.

Carrie’s heart jumped into her throat. She jerked around to see a prone form on the bottom bunk and struggled to find her voice. “I… I thought I was alone.”

“No such luck. They prefer to keep the cells full. It makes serving meals and head counts a lot easier for the coven of witches who work here. My name’s Susanna Crane.” A tall blonde with bright eyes and full lips stood and offered her hand, then chuckled. “Oh, sorry, I can see you have your arms full. The good news is, it’s nice to have company, and the bad news is you get the top bunk. The bottom one is the only perk around here, and it’s first-come-first-serve.” Her pleasant giggle was a welcome sound.

Carrie stood on tiptoes and dumped her issued items on the bare mattress. She eyed the marks of age that crinkled the cold plastic, and noticed rips where cotton poked through—like her, it sought escape from a hellish confinement. A quiet chuckle bubbled to her lips until she tried picturing what type of people had slept on the bedding before her. She cringed.

At home, her downy mattress was practically new, still bearing the tags that threatened penalties if they were removed. How ironic. You couldn’t be more law-abiding than that.

She turned back to her cellmate. “Don’t we even get pillows?”

Susanna shook her head. “Not anymore. I hear they used to issue them, but some idiot tried flushing one and backed up the whole sewer system, so now…”

“I don’t think I can sleep without one.”

“You’ll learn.”

“So… we all get punished for what one person did?” Carrie hoped she misunderstood.

“That’s the way it works. It’s an incentive program.”

“Incentive for what?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet. I think they expect us to police one another, yet fighting isn’t tolerated. That seems pretty stupid, considering the best way to stop someone from doing something that’s gonna screw us all, is to beat the livin’ shit out of ’em. Go figure.” Susanna’s lips practically disappeared into a thin line.

She was taken aback by Susanna’s language. At first sight, with her shoulder-length hair and big blue eyes, she looked like the all-American girl. The one you’d find in church or at the Red Cross. Carrie figured her for twenty-five at the most. She glanced around the cell, pondering Susanna’s last statement.

“I’m not sure I understand. How can they expect us to prevent things from happening if we’re all separately caged… like animals?”

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I hope that your muse stops playing and comes back full of energy so that you can both be creative together.

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