A Muse

Writing is easy but having a story is hard. Staring at a blank page is stress-inducing and there is nothing more frustrating than writing one paragraph and erasing it, only to repeat the process again and again. Writing should be easy. All you need to do is write. One word, one sentence, one paragraph at a time. Then why is it that I have written the first three words, three sentences, but I don’t have even one paragraph? Why is it that I have come to this point in my story and have run out of things to say?

I know there are cures for this ailment, and I know that there are tested methods to get one out of a slump. Yet, I also know of ways to gain a fount of inspiration that can never run dry. I have heard of these muses; all the best authors have one. They frequently boast about them in their autobiographies or in the blurbs within the covers. Although, with some research and discussions with people in the industry, they have warned me that muses are dangerous. I don’t really understand why; everyone claims they are never-ending sources of inspiration and are constantly pitching new plots, themes, and characters for current or future projects. How could that be bad? Staring at a blank page has almost driven me to pure madness. I would kill to be inundated with fresh ideas.

Now that I have one, I believe that those nay-sayers were only trying to discourage me from joining their prestigious ranks. Every morning my muse has a wonderous idea for a new story, quick novella, or elegant poem. I have written epics, comics, scripts, and haikus that have all been praised by both critics and the populace. Every afternoon during lunch I am barraged with new twists and turns to lead my readers down for my latest thriller. Every evening after I have long closed my notebook I am harassed with new scenes and depictions of glorious places and wonderous treasures for my ongoing adventurer comic. Every night while preparing for bed I am assaulted with new lyrics and verses for my latest sonnet or limerick.

All I can think about are my stories. I have no life, no friends, and I don’t know if I still have family, but what does it matter? I have new ideas. I never again have to worry about a blank page or erasing a sentence. I have mounds of manuscripts still waiting to be sent off, but I will send them when I am finished. For now I must write down this new chapter and then add a stanza or two to my poetry and of course, I cannot forget my drawings. I have been inspired to add illustrations to my projects and, I must say, my talent with charcoal is reaching new heights.

It is odd though, I do not remember the last time I ate or drank, let alone had a moment to close my eyes. Now that I think about it, these pages are full of my ideas, my characters, my places, and my musings but I do not recognize any of the writing as my own. I stare at the page before me, a blank page that begins to fill with ink and letters. The hand is not my own, and I realize the truth behind the warnings of owning a muse. “Always be your own muse, lest you become someone else’s.”