Well, because I can't muster up creativity to write on my WIP, I've decided to drop a little something in my journal. I came up with a question of the muse.
Everyone talks about their muse (or to their muse for the crazies). It's where we get our ideas from. I think everyone has one, but you have to pay attention every now and then when he/she shows up.
I would hope mine is a she actually. And hot. That might make things easier. However, I have a feeling, while hot, she is unattainable and strong willed. I'm not too handsome or intelligent that I'd think I'd impress her anyhow.
Along with this, everyone imagines where their muse hangs out. Steve King said his muse is in the basement. He's a humble guy. Basements creep me out a bit. Like clowns and snowmen. And Anna Leigh dolls. I prefer to think that I write in a great tree, alone in a field with roots that shoot out for miles, grabbing at lives and stories and maybe even feeding them to me. Of course, not directly to me, my muse is the only one who can translate these stories for me. And that crazy bitch just left me up in the tree today, taking the ladder with her. Maybe it's her birthday and I forgot to give her a gift.
So, I'll sit here and write in my journal, or the equivalent of one. I'll sit here and imagine the view. I bet it's a beautiful sky, red and orange clouds shifting in the twilight sun. I should really be getting home and thinking of more corporeal things, but that damn muse left me up here.
Everyone talks about their muse (or to their muse for the crazies). It's where we get our ideas from. I think everyone has one, but you have to pay attention every now and then when he/she shows up.
I would hope mine is a she actually. And hot. That might make things easier. However, I have a feeling, while hot, she is unattainable and strong willed. I'm not too handsome or intelligent that I'd think I'd impress her anyhow.
Along with this, everyone imagines where their muse hangs out. Steve King said his muse is in the basement. He's a humble guy. Basements creep me out a bit. Like clowns and snowmen. And Anna Leigh dolls. I prefer to think that I write in a great tree, alone in a field with roots that shoot out for miles, grabbing at lives and stories and maybe even feeding them to me. Of course, not directly to me, my muse is the only one who can translate these stories for me. And that crazy bitch just left me up in the tree today, taking the ladder with her. Maybe it's her birthday and I forgot to give her a gift.
So, I'll sit here and write in my journal, or the equivalent of one. I'll sit here and imagine the view. I bet it's a beautiful sky, red and orange clouds shifting in the twilight sun. I should really be getting home and thinking of more corporeal things, but that damn muse left me up here.