You sit there, waiting for that singular spark to strike. For magic to take over your fingers. For the words that seem to form without effort. For the sparkling stories that seem perfect on first sight. For you to transcend reality and spout ideas like a fountain.
You sit there, waiting to write.
You wait for a muse.
And you dare call yourself a writer?
Never has anything been so ridiculous. This lie you tell yourself, it is remarkably laughable. You ought to try another word to explain your profession. Perhaps channeler? Time-waster? Useless fool?
You should quit now. Your tangled tales are nothing to me because they will never be anything. If you wander away all your hours, seeking help from an outside source, your words will never be complete. My dear, dear Reader, let me tell you the full-blown truth.
As is, you are naught but a slave.
Freeing you is impossible for me. But you - you may still be able to escape. Open the door, and flame will light out of my fingertips and burn your muse into ash.
First, questioning.
What is a muse that holds you with leash and collar? An old cult of disbelief and cruelty. Nothing less, nothing more. A Greek deity or nine. You, poor dear, have been forced into dependency on its sour milk. You are but one of the many that debase yourself, waiting for its fickle blessing.
And will you ever get it?
Maybe.
You grovel anyways. There is nothing that sets you apart from the other humans, writhing on the floor as you are.
These words may be cruel. But somewhere in your heart, lose your foolish dependency. Understand the truth.
Open your eyes.
Second, understanding.
Where does a muse spring from? Whilst Sable would like to slip the wool over your eyes, the truth is so deceptively simple it sounds like a silver-plated lie.
You.
Your heart, your mind, your fingers.
There is no other magic. There is no invisible spirit that perches on your shoulder, whispering words into your ear. You may be a writer, but that is no excuse to lie needlessly. Lies are for the audience, not the creator.
Inspiration is your own heart caring and feeling, your own mind weaving lies and answers, and your own fingers placing it on paper. Realize this and take your first step into the real world.
You are your own muse.
Third, action.
How do you act without a muse? The simplest, yet the hardest step.
You just do.
Write without your muse dancing over your shoulder. Let your fingers go off in joyful abandon. Throw away your fear of failure, your need for perfection, and simply take off into the unknown. Write for the fun of the process.
Don’t wait. Through rain and sleet and sunshine and wind and morning and night and hard days and easy days, just do. Every single day. Every single possible second.
I am looking forward to your emancipation, my dear. Soon, the sky will be filled with bursts of red light and grey ash. Fire will fill the world as far as the eye can see, and the tyrant Muse will be no more. There will be a new golden age of storytelling.
One day, you will write by your own power. The day cannot come soon enough.
Today, shed your collar.
Tomorrow, be free.
Write.
You are a writer, are you not?
Remember, there are always stories for those that seek them.
Sable, check. Your move.
