The Amazon

by V Rose Dahrke

Topic #76 asked me about my muse.  Sonia M. recently described hers, and did so wonderfully, I must say.  I considered both of these posts and thought to myself: I have no idea who my muse is.  I’ve written poetry, I’ve written short stories, and I’ve written an entire damned novel; surely I must have one.

But who?  Who is she?  Might she be a he?

The answer to that last question came back a resounding “no”, though I couldn’t tell you why.  At least I was getting somewhere.

I came across this comic (warning: some nudity).  Is she willowy and alabaster?  No.  Is she the desk punching type?  Not quite, but I had the feeling that was much closer than the alternative.

All I knew was this much: she had gone missing.  I have had nothing; no motivation, no deep ideas, no themes, no real attachment to my new set of characters.  I had a few names, some semi-relevant verses, an idea or two that came from rebounding old notes of one another.  That was all.  In short, I had a few straws which looked like planks, but did very little to help me float.

Something changed today.  I had a job interview, and, failing that, a guaranteed job helping my mother-in-law fix up a house.  I had things to do today; I had places to go.  I was busy.  More importantly, I had something I haven’t had in a long time: the potential to be busy in the future.

I was in my car, driving to the bank and sorting through how I was going to organize my life should I get that job when she came home.  Somewhere in the back of my mind a figure I had not actually seen in a great number of years raised her head, sniffed the air like a dog, and came forward.  Tall and strong- an Amazon- with curled brown hair, she is every inch my antithesis.  I have no idea why I originally created her; I only know that I did so when I was rather young, and that I could never seem to figure out what color her eyes were.

I saw them today, and though I still couldn’t tell you their color, I realized for the first time that she’s blind.

As I drove, she told me of Subatien the Trickster, of the Goddess-King, of Vulrassa and the jealous stars, of a nebulous all-benevolent deity which gave and gave of itself until it was reduced to near-humanity, of the Underlander’s king and his daughter who left her soul behind.  She told me stories of a world just now truly forming, and she told me how to build it.  She told me when I was busy.

She told me because I was busy.

She will not come when I have the time to listen; she has no reason.  She comes when there is a possibility that I might not have time to write and gives me material I can’t ignore to ensure that I do.

She is the storyteller who will not let the stories end.

Her name is Fear of Dying Voiceless.

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