Fiction Muse – Dead

I sit today and search for inspiration. Nothing unusual there. Writers often struggle for the muse to filter into their lonely lives. I need to focus and present the page a story of immense magnitude. A story to wow the reader and myself as well. Yet I stare off across the library at all the folk reading, surfing the net and working puzzles on tables.

Nothing fictional attaches to my brain. Now I feel worthless. I can’t seem to even kick up a romance between the gangsta dude and the little white-haired old lady with the returned book cart. Wouldn’t that be a hoot? Sixteen-year-old hoodlum dating an eighty-five-year-old grandmother. Would it sound any better if the kid were twenty?

Typically, stories present themselves at every turn of the neck, ear or mind. As I experience this drought, please bear with me. Go back and read some of “The Cold Bite of Autumn” on this blog. The story is a fiction about a triple crossing (at least) agent for a mega-corporation who attempts to commit suicide and take out three other operatives with her – and they happen to be her closest buds.

I know no more about where that story will go than I do about when the muse will strike again. Somehow, I believe the two interconnect in some nefarious manner…