Finishing the chapter, I stayed up another few hours to review the contract.  The standard boilerplate weighed heavily on my eyelids and I closed them completely for a much-needed rest.  When I awoke, I dragged my pen across the page three times –Alleyne did say triplicate right?- and headed out for more ideas.  With one glance, this fantastic being had provided me with enough fodder for a chapter.  Like a morning coffee addiction, I was already Jonesing for more.  As I left my driveway, she was sitting there, under a maple tree, reading Dante’s Inferno, apparently searching for divine inspiration, or perhaps just some comedy.  She held out her hands.  At this moment, the wellspring of inspiration washed over me, drenching me in creative possibilities, drowning me in waters of stupidity.  I gave her the contract, signed, and unread.  Her lips paused halfway up their journey to her ears, just to let me know she pondered my fate for that brief instant.  Then, wrapping herself in her shawl, she pursed her lips and breathed towards me.  I stood there, stunned.  My imagination, once barricaded by the fences of my own imprisoning mind, now sprung forth, down my arms and into the keys. Restricted only by my feebleness at the keyboard, I banged out fifty pages in less than an hour.  My muse continued to breathe her ideas into my life, allowing me to find passion, empathy, conflict and rage, in a single page.  As I reached my story’s climactic moment, her androgynous figure stood taller, allowing me a brief glimpse up her skirt, revealing nothing, merely suggesting the sensuality lurking there.  My uncomfortable heart fell victim to my bubbling brain, and more words left my fingers.  Like ballerinas treading the boards of this stage called life, her words danced from those lips to my hands.  When I finished the final pages of my story, my muse concluded her blowing.  She took a step back and stared at me.  Seconds later, she lifted the contract from her pocket and smiled. 

“So?.”

“So,” I said whimsically.

“Are you ready”

“Ready for what?” I replied, a hint of concern.

“You agreed to my test, correct?”

“Um…yes Alleyne, of course I did.”

“Well, then, let us begin.”

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After some prodding from Rich and my subsequent post about block and another discussion, inspiration for a new story struck me. This is a story of one writer's search for a muse of his or her very own. As the introduction suggests, finding a true muse may not be all it is cracked up to be. Muses are fickle things, as all too many of us know. They do not keep faith and can be seduced away, or they can drive a person far too hard. If you choose to add to this story, please keep to the tone suggested in the introduction. Stick to first person for the protagonist. Shift only if you choose to write from a different perspective (friends, family, the muse). Although this tale will probably have humorous moments, it is not intended necessarily as a farce. It is more allegory on the writing (or not writing) process. A search for an explanation of "why the block?" or "why can't I just sleep instead of having to get up and write?" It is mythological in nature to some extent and references to past mythology about the muse is welcomed. This particular muse, however, is not to be one of the nine Greek goddesses.

updated Dec 11 '08 by CheshireGrin