A writer and his/her muse generally has a love/hate relationship, and my relationship with mine is no different. For a long time I actually thought she was a cat. When I needed her she was nowhere to be found, but if I was busy doing something else, she would come and curl up in my lap and purr stories into my head. Later I decided she was a dragon. I’m not sure why I thought that, but it seemed right at the time. Then there was a while that I thought she might actually be a male. In other words, my muse confused the crap out of me on a regular basis.
I got some answers a few nights ago. My muse appeared to me in a dream. Yep, you read that right. I dreamed about my muse. She appeared as a beautiful young woman dressed in a long, flowing, gossamer dress. I was surprised, but it was cool to know what exactly she was (and that she was a she). But then we had a little conversation. "Get to the writing!" she said.
"I am. I’m editing and polishing and getting this manuscript to send to my editor," I told her.
"That’s not writing. Creating new material, that’s writing," she informed me. "There are a hundred new stories backed up along the assembly line waiting for you."
I groaned. "But if I don’t polish and submit, what good is writing all those stories?"
"Not my problem."
"Give me a break. Don’t you want to see our book published?"
She gave me an exasperated look, then quickly changed into a cat and then a dragon. Holy crap! My muse is a shape-shifter.
"If you want to get something published then you do what you need to do to make that happen," she told me. "My job is to inspire new material, and if you don’t get to writing something new I’ll show you what I’m truly capable of."
With that, she became a fire-breathing, seriously scary version of my dragon Quill. Then she vanished.
The next morning I worked on a new first scene, a scene my muse had shown me a couple of months ago. Yep, she scared me I generally love dragons, but that scary one was something else.
Well, y’all have a great weekend. I have to go write.
Ouch! Hey, that’s my best pair of feels-good-but-falling-apart jeans you singed. Gee, you have a creepy laugh.