It all started with the post on Tuesday (The Writing Cast). I was going to follow up with a post about my muse: Nereth. Then I wondered what my fellow writers had to say about their own muses. In a rush of excitement, I concocted a plan: to turn my modest me-me-me post into a WE extravaganza!
So I rushed to twitter, pen poised in hand, to look for gems. My question was: ‘Does your muse have a name?’ It turned out that some had, others didn’t, and yet third did not even exist, much like dragons and Rudolph.
But the purpose of this collaboration was not to judge. It wasn’t to restrict either. It was simply to collect, inquire, and inspire. So I gave my friends total freedom, and boy was I flabbergasted at the results!
So today I’m posting the first (out of 3) instalment. What you will see here is a mixety-matchety botch of zombie soup for the writer’s soul. My thought was that people should enjoy the entire range of emotions at once for a truly spectacular treat. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll gasp, and you’ll be like à O_o
All in one. So buckle up, open your mind, and let the words do the rest.
Does my muse have a name?
I look at my children's faces and see laughter, hope, and endless possibilities. I see the wonder in their eyes, a whole new world where everything excites. I see the joy of ice cream, running, and mud pies. I see a muse in my children.
Sometimes a sound pricks my ears and makes me think of another world. It stirs something up inside my soul that brings all emotion to the surface. I see a muse in music.
In the quiet moments of my day, it comes in a soft whisper or just the brush of a hand. I hardly knew I could love a man after being with him for eight years. I hardly knew a love could grow that strong. I see a muse in my husband.
A spring breeze wraps me in a chilled embrace and brings the sweet scent of green grass and blooming flowers to my nose. The sunset, the blue sky, the sound of trickling water. I see a muse in nature.
Memories flood back of the world around me. Does my muse have a name? The answer - life.
--Jennifer Bennett (@jennie_bennett) inspires with her writing. She’s currently working on a fantasy novel.
Inspiration seems to visit at the most inopportune moments, like driving, dinner with the wife, or standing in line at Disneyland. I don't know if this makes my muse cruel or simply mercurial. The only predictable time I can summon her is during a shower. Something about the rush of water and the lack of writing implements (save steam and my finger) that gets the ideas flowing. The scientist in me puts it down to a calm mind that's more open to suggestion. My inner surrealist blames the muse for poor timing.
--Tim Kane (@timkanebooks) is a bizarro writer. His words, not mine. :D
What is…is madness
I was recently asked if I have a name for my muse. I don’t know about a specific name for something that breathes life as if out of thin air. My muse is plural, therefore; they are like ghosts who travel through the winds of time, vying for my attention. They have specific genders and come with unique voices. They scream, “Listen to me, please, and tell my story!”
On the off chance that my muse is not really plural, but singular; then I must hypothesize that my muse has an affliction which belongs in the hall of madness. Could it be that my muse has a multiple personality disorder since each character brings about a unique presence? Whatever the answer, I’m grateful because when loneliness surrounds me, my muse is there to both entertain and keep me company. So the only name I have for it is…Amigo.
--Nomar Knight (@KnightChills) is a horror-fan, a poet, a dancer, and a dear friend. You’ll see more of him here on my blog.
This is how I meet my muse.
Willow branches caress the water’s surface. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. The scent is musky, earthen. Birds echo their resonance and it makes my skin hum. The corners of my lips twitch upward.
I was brought here with purpose. To await my muse’s gift.
Behind the willow’s curtain, golden sparks flicker against the deep blue sky. Mesmerized by their magnificence, I stare in awe. They slowly break free from their sun source and descend.
The sparks take form in front of me, re-emerging as something new. Enormous wings unfurl; their translucence illuminated from within. I take a step back, shielding my eyes.
I wish I could see its face.
“Thank you for your patience.” the feminine voice whispers. “Use this wisely, it is the keeper of many worlds.”
A closed hand is presented. I hesitantly extend mine to accept the offering. The object’s weight is barely noticeable and I clutch it close to my body. Without another word, my muse’s light disperses; returning to its source.
A jagged breath escapes and I bite my lip.
What will I find?
Unlocking my fingers, I look down.
A nondescript plastic spoon.
I blink hard.
--Carissa Elg (@Carissa_Elg) is hilarious, as you just saw. I’m putting her in my funny bunny basket. Also, see the Pendomus Chronicles. Brilliant, no?
Meet My Muse
Today my muse is Gavin Cassidy. When he sings, his Australian accented voice sounds like sharkskin leather. His lip ring glints under the spotlight. My rock star is always in the light. The Earth, Air, Fire, and Water tattoos inking his arms glow according to which Element controls him—and therefore, me. The Fire of creativity blazes red neon tat outlines through his right forearm as his fingers work the frets. He loans me his Fire, and I give him life on the page. It’s a symbiotic relationship, and it works for us.
Tomorrow it might be a different character. Male or female, human or Elemental, my muse takes the form of the character I need to become, when I need it. Like they say, when the student is ready, the teacher will appear.
--Kendall Grey (@kendallgrey1) is a whale educator and a fantasy writer. Wait... huh?
My muse isn’t a person, so it doesn’t have a name. It doesn’t have a face, so I couldn’t tell you if it has blue eyes or green, if it’s lanky or pudgy or even if it jogs in the morning in the fresh, untainted air.
But I know its voice, like I know the wind rustling the leaves on a breezy day. I know its whisper against the back of my neck when I think today’s writing is crap. I know its gentle nudge when I’m stuck, its nod and a smile when the doubts start to sink in, its applause when I scribble THE END at the bottom of the page in fresh, red ink.
My muse is a silent warrior. It comes and goes at its own pace, but never when I want it to. It knows my writing better than I know myself and when I’m sure I’ll never have another decent idea again, it slips one in my mind and nudges me along again.
--Avalon Jaedra (@Ava_Jae) and I have lots in common. She’s my side-kick and I’m her fan. ^_^
Last summer, I was laying in bed reading when I felt like I was being watched. I looked up and I saw a man with tussled jet black hair and steel blue eyes standing before me. He smelled of whiskey and summer and it stirred something deep within me.
He sat down on the bed and with one finger he touched just below my ear before letting it trace down my neck sending chills down my spine. He leaned closer to me, causing the bed to shift and my body to fall towards him. I could feel his warm breath on my neck as he whispered “Write,” his musical lilt causing my breath to catch.
Electric charges ripped through my body as I tore off the bed and opened my laptop. After about three pages I stopped to catch my breath and looked back to the bed.
“Who are you?”
“I’m your chaos, your refuge, your freedom… your muse.”
“Do you have a name?”
A slow grin began with his eyes and finished on his lips.
“It’s Devlin, love.”
With that he was behind me, his hands massaging my shoulders.
“Introductions later, now, you write.”
And write I did.
--Karen DeLabar (@KarenDeLabar) is a romance writer. Her writing has this silent quality to inspire and subdue. You know what I mean?
Post-script: Lots more to come! What did you think? And by all means, feel free to share your own story with us down there in the tiny comment box. ^_^
Next instalment coming up tomorrow! Next after that on Saturday.