Erin and Talia. There, I have my muses named.
Wait—muses, you say? I say, isn’t that what my next story is about? Not muses per say, but it’s where the story’s going, so hang on.
I actually have a few people named out for the next story. Keith will be my male protagonist, and that’s a name that came to me as I was driving into work this morning. I know his manager will be named Debbie, and while I have a certain disdain for that name these days, I have no intention of turning her into a passive-aggressive mess like another person I knew. No, she’ll actually be nice and engaging—the sort of manager we should all have.
There will be two other people as well: one of Keith’s friends, and a female protagonist who is likely to make Keith’s life as complicated as Erin will. The male friend will likely show up in a few scenes, but the female protagonist—ah, this is a different story. She’s going to be seen far more than just a few times. Far more times.
I did little last night beside relax and listen to music last night. I didn’t think about 3D modeling or playing game—it was a give it a rest night. Well, up to a point. See, the brain never stops, and even when I’m not doing anything, I am. So I was thinking. Thinking about stories, about muses and how they come around and make the lives of us creative types a hell from time to time.
I was thinking about my own muse, who expressed her unhappiness that I wasn’t writing at the moment . . .
She’s a lovely creature, my muse. She speaks to me, and I know I speak to her because she tells me so. But she’s also one who, when she speaks, I should listen. There have been times when I didn’t listen in the past, and she came back and let me know, in her own quiet way, what a mistake that was. She’s never been nasty to me, nor mean, but I know when she’s not happy.
It’s her words; I feel them. I connect to them. Probably because I write, I recognize the sensations she place within her sentences. There’s no need to ask if she’s bothered: I know.
I won’t say she was bothered when I spoke with her, but there was an undercurrent of disturbed that was present. It was a case of me sitting back and doing something else, something that isn’t my main goal, which is getting my writing out there for others to see. I’ve rested on my laurels—which, frankly, aren’t a hell of a lot—and there isn’t a lot of time to rest. Not when your laurels are all that much to brag about.
Therefore, as soon as I get a title, the story gets laid out. Because there is no rest for the writer. Not that I have rested, but . . . well tell that to my muse—
As much as she likes to pretend she’s imaginary, I know better. Much better.