Posts Tagged ‘muse’


October 13, 2008

   I am haunted by stories that want to be told, that want me to tell them, that want to be heard, that want a writer to help them have their say. 


   I am haunted by characters that want me to describe them, observe them, record them, show, not tell, how they lived and why they made the choices they did and give a glimpse of what they might have been.


   I am haunted by words that dance just out of sight.  I know just the right word, but it won’t come when I need it.  Three hours later, there it is, grinning and hopping in plain view.


   I am haunted by plots that might work, if only I could figure out the missing pieces, plots that imply they are plausible, but they lie, they lie!


   I am haunted by endings – it could be this, or that, or something else – but what SHOULD it be?  “Let the characters tell you” – but they suddenly join a mime troupe and leave en masse.  Pesky protagonists!


   I am haunted by peer reviewers who cried “trite, trod ground, showing, not telling” and my own fear of failure.


   I am haunted by authors and teachers and readers and by the muse herself.  I want to please. 


   Like a child resisting going to sleep, I beg, “Just one more story…”



By Kerry Vincent © 2008


The Dark Muse

March 15, 2008
(Inspired by Soul Food Cafe prompt to give thanks to a creative ally)
He fears the blank wall but he must face it.  The pen burns his hand but he cannot let go.  The words are ghosts that haunt his body and his mind.  He does not want to see them, but there they are, a cold presence, that must be released to find peace.
She watches him.  She will not let him go.  He must face his fate, dree his weird.  He has things to say, things he does not know, that he will not know until he says them, until he writes them on the wall of his soul.
He is naked.  He can hide from himself no longer.  His way is lonely, but he must go on.
He nurses at the dragon’s teat.  He sucks the danger, spits the poison,  sacrifices himself to save his people. 
No one knows of his silent suffering,
but a few others chained to the Muse.
It is the way of the artist,
the salvation of creativity’s soul.