A Scribe’s Tuesday Morning Muse
Good morning, y’all. Ever wonder? Are authors sane? Or–? Bear with me… I gotta get this out. I’m trying on a “new voice” mired in dramatic irony. And you’re the first to be bludgeoned with it. Lucky you. This came to me in the middle of last night’s storm-tossed sleep.
So, I have captured and sculpted to my liking the illusive concept that has put purpose in my weary step for the last decade, the blink of a cosmic eye. Instead of patiently awaiting fate to deal me a dubious future—a dark tempest or a joyous feast—events and the universe have conspired to gift me the means to craft whatever life I desire on behalf of dear creatures I embrace with pen put to paper, to breathe life, or to deliver death, to oblivious beings who seek relevance in my novels, struggling to live and die, love and hate, in a world I create.
It’s… godlike.
And yet, as I venture into such madness, with no worldly forbearance, I realize that being godlike punishes the creator’s soul for harboring such illusions. A wisp of genius blossoms in a cloud of conflict, just before evaporating in a confounding barrage, a whirlwind that chokes, uplifts, and then plummets every facet of my frailty into the abyss of doubt.
Yes, I doubt myself, even as I’m caught up riding ridiculous waves of inspiration, only to be cast into a trough created solely for my solitary confinement. There, I wallow, waiting for the next crushing wave, for endless eons, servile to a race of beings who defy me at every turn, refusing my beneficent gifts of life, of meaning, favoring instead to mock that which I offer so freely at great cost. The next page remains… blank. This impossible task is best left to someone more… worthy.
I loathe being godlike.
And then, as if only to tease, the leaden sky parts. As if by magic, one tiny miracle after another manifests itself in an infinite succession of tiny but priceless brushstrokes. They adorn the page, my page, the canvas of my masterpiece. A transcendent flash of creation coalesces.
But then, darkness descends once again. And again. The cycle of a writer’s life grinds on, as the next convolution follows its pretender. For years, decades, eons, this wholly pretentious act of creation drags me by the heart to some illogical conclusion. I have no choice, a tortured soul driven to the joy of creating, lacking the will to discontinue. What does this mean?
I am not godlike at all.
Yet, I author fiction, a creator of worlds, universes. Races of beings sometimes bend to my will. But they do not appreciate my power. Neither do I. This storyteller is anything but godlike.
Or maybe gods are… just like me.
Until next time….
Gene
Gene
