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.