People talk in different ways about writing. Some call it a craft, or an art. Others talk about skills and the need to keep them sharp, while yet another camp says it’s all about hard work and dedication. Personally, I believe in the muse, that magical thing that binds all of these things into the singular process.
My muse is an ethereal inspiration, a passion that drives me to pull pure thought from the air and trap it on the page. It is the muse that whispers to me it’s time to write, or time to seek knowledge and improvement. There are times it says go play, then rest, but I resist that. I’m like a junkie suffering withdrawal if I stay away from the stories for too long. The muse knows this, and compensates with the promise of renewed energy. So far, it hasn’t reneged.
A few years back when I needed to abandon old roads for awhile, the muse whispered of private passions. My muse is a powerful ally, and I listened carefully. Three stories, the Victory collection, were born of that late night session, written in remembrance of a beloved friend who died during the years when AIDS had a face, but no name. I never planned to go farther than Surrendered Victory, Passion’s Victory, and Shining Victory.
Seven years on, I think it’s safe to say the muse held a differing and prevailing opinion.
As we step into August, I’m finishing up a story entitled September Morning. It occurred to me I might be at the beginning of another collection. First came December Promise and more recently, Hot August Comes.
The work of the subconscious? A trick of the muse? I don’t have the answer. I’ll just follow whatever instructions my passionate muse dictates and see where I end up. There's not much else I can do.