Capturing the Muse
Page 1
CAPTURING the MUSE
Madison Avery
Stark Naked Publishing
Hamilton, Ontario
Copyright © 2015 by Alisha Souillet
Cover art Copyright [Insert Artist Name Here]
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Stark Naked Publishing
Hamilton, Ontario
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com
Capturing the Muse / Madison Avery – 1steBook edition (2015)
eBook ISBN - 978-0-9948145-1-7
Print ISBN 978-0-9948145-0-0
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Author’s Note
Dedication
Luck be a Penny
Dances with Muses
Filling in the Blanks
Bookstores and Dreams
Beneath the Inhibitions
Bonus Features
Acknowledgements
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Author’s Note
I’VE READ several books lately that have included an Authors Note. I kinda like the idea. This isn’t where I thank everyone that helped me get this book together, you’ll have to wait for that, or skip to the end. This is where I tell you a bit of the inspiration behind this book. This... collected work of short stories.
The thing about writing is this: it’s not easy. It’s not. It’s impossibly hard. And I think every author I know, and even ones I don’t, have probably thought a time or two about giving up. Or having hit a wall so high, and hard, carved out of stone, that they can’t seem to break through it, or know how to scale it. There are no easy ways to combat this type of moment. Or rather, moments that seem to stretch the length of time; days turning into weeks, and months, and then, maybe even years.
We, in the industry, call this Writer’s Block. It’s sort of funny—it is—that writers are the only collective profession in the world that have given a word to some unforeseen force that takes over and allows them not to work. Not to get the job done.
“All writing is difficult. The most you can hope for is a day when it goes reasonably easily. Plumbers don’t get plumber’s block, and doctors don’t get doctor’s block; why should writers be the only profession that gives a special name to the difficulty of working, and then expects sympathy for it?”
~ Philip Pullman
I never used to believe in Writer’s Block. I thought it was just an excuse, or something imaginary in the mind that writers gave too much power to, and eventually, it just takes over. I was the person with a million ideas, stories that begged to be written, that constant hum, or whisper, that I attributed to my Muse. My mythical friend that helped guide my way. I woke up and was desperate to let my fingers caress the keyboard and allow words to flow through me, creating works of brilliant and masterful art; or at least, what I thought was brilliant and masterful art, that part was (and always will be) up for debate.
But then, one day, it was gone. That whispering Muse, the inkling to write, that desperation to release my innermost thoughts and desires onto a page, for fear if I didn’t, I’d explode. It was just gone. I lost that motivation. That courage. I had let the imaginary Writer’s Block get the best of me. Days turned into weeks, eventually leading the way to months and before I knew it, almost a whole year had passed. Sure, I wrote things: Grocery Lists, and To-Do Lists, and maybe when I heard that barest hint of my Muse speaking to me, I’d write a little more, but it never amounted to much. I could never seem to harness the voice, control it, and force it to help me write something of substance.
I truly had begun to think it was gone. Forever. That I had written the creativity right out of me. But that seemed, and felt, just as absurd as admitting I was suffering from Writer’s Block. I had given in, and given it too much power, and it began to consume me. And deep down, it killed me.
Sure, I told myself I was still a writer, an Author. I kept up the façade I had created, and taught a few classes at a library, preaching about all the ways one can become a better writer. Lesson One: Write. Write every day. Write your heart out, and bleed your soul onto the page.
I needed that reminder. And encouragement. A cheerleader that understood all the ups and downs of the profession. I had/have my own fan club, a select few people who are supportive, and stand by me, and encourage me. But I needed more. I needed someone that truly understood, from the prospective only another writer can have, and I needed to ask for help.
Well, maybe I didn’t outright ask for it, but this person, saw something in me. That creative edge. An ember of what used to be there, and was willing to help me figure out a way to reignite it. Reminding me of all the wonderful things that I love about writing and why I would be doing myself a disservice to just give up.
So this. What you’re about to read, it all started with a friend. And a writing prompt.
That’s right. Who knew? A silly writing prompt and that push I needed to just try. It was something so simple. Write about a writer who had lost their muse, and needed to figure out how to get it back.
I had to remind myself to start small. No pressure. To just let the prompt help me do the work. Allowing myself to capture my muse and bring it forth.
I think we, as writers, sometimes get overwhelmed by the big picture, the pressure to produce, to please, to entertain, and we forget, or begin to forget and let fade that creative spark that fills us and motivates us. I think, when writing truly begins to feel like a job, something you no longer look forward to doing when you wake up in the morning, and dread sitting at the keyboard, or lose that whisper from your muse, you need to step back. Take a breath. And remember what about writing you loved so much.
I love telling stories. I love the idea of entertaining other people. And with that friend, and that prompt, eventually leading to more prompts and more stories, and that faith and encouragement, I was reminded about all the good things about writing. Reminded about how awesome it feels to just let your heart and soul speak, creating characters, and writing prose.
In a way, a lot of the inspiration behind this collection of short stories is myself. That writer who lost their muse. Pieces of me are in every story. They are what helped me push forward, crumble that wall, and release some of my own inhibitions. Because with writing, sometimes you just have to change things up, too. And, boy, did I ever! This was an exploration of monumental proportions, and something totally new to me.
And I’m sure, now, some of you are wondering if I’ve recaptured my muse, again? Maybe not completely; but this, taking these stories, and entertaining people, and putting them out into the world, is a good start.
Madison Avery
June 2015
Dedication
To the Muse that left, and to the new one I captured.
Luck be a Penny
RAYNE MCKAY rushed down the stairs, gripping the cool metal rail for support. She hurried, as best she could in a pair of stiletto heels, trying to reach the train before it pulled out of the station. She didn’t want to be any later than she was already.
She was careful to shove people out of the way as nicely as she could, but as Rayne neared the platform, the train doors closed. A moment later, it was heading through the tunnel, disappearing out of sight. Rayne took a moment to catch her breath, uttering a fe
w obscenities. There was no point in running anymore.
"Can you spare some change, ma'am?"
Looking to the ground, towards the voice she’d heard, Rayne saw a man. It wasn't an odd sight—not at the train station. There were always people lounging around, cups, signs or open guitar cases, hoping for coins, or better yet, a few crisp bills to land inside.
The odd thing about the homeless man was how Rayne’s heart lurched, feeling sorry for him. Normally, she was the kind of person that would have walked on by, to the far end of the track, just to avoid him. Rayne hated that about herself. But she had been brought up with the belief that people could always find work, that being homeless was a choice. Of course, now she knew better, but Rayne couldn't help that they somehow made her more uncomfortable in her own skin than usual.
Rayne hadn't bothered to bring a purse with her. She hated them. She’d shoved her license and credit card into the back pocket of her jeans and her cell phone in the front as she rushed out the door that morning. But she found herself reaching into her pockets, anyway. Her hand plunged into each pocket¸ the ones in her pants, and next, the ones in her tweed coat, until she felt something.
When her hand pulled free and Rayne opened her palm, to her disappointment, there were a few crumpled gum wrappers, a used toothpick—gross, she thought with a blush—and one shiny penny.
"I'm sorry. This-this is all I have." She held out the copper coin, instantly wishing it could be more.
The man took the offering, closing his fingers around the coin. "It is what it is," he said. Then he took the coin, rested it on his thumb and flipped it in the air, catching it. "But you should keep it. A penny for your thoughts, and may it bring you good luck."
Rayne laughed, shaking her head. "Believe it or not, I'm not thinking anything. And I think life has given me all the luck it can. Please. Keep it. I insist."
An earnest smile spread over the man's face. "I think you're wrong. On both accounts. But I'll keep the penny."
With a nod and a warm smile of her own, Rayne turned to leave, just as another train pulled into the station. She found herself in the flow of passengers as they filed in. Rayne slumped into a seat by the window and gazed out, looking for the homeless man. When she searched the space, at the base of the stairs, against the wall, it was empty. He was gone. She didn't give the ordeal any more thought other than silently hoping the man would find some luck of his own, and a moment later, forgetting him completely.
When Rayne finally made it to the office of her literary agent, Lacy Brown, she was more than half an hour late. She opened the door slowly and walked in. There were piles of papers on the desk, on the floor, and overflowing the trash can. It was a wonder how such a disorganized person was so organized in matters of acquiring authors, and selling their works. She was one of the best. Rayne was thankful every day that Lacy had seen something within her early works and was confident in her skills as an up and coming author. That was six years ago, and five books later. But lately, Rayne was in a slump. In fact, the meeting she was late for was to discuss just that, she knew it.
"Come in, come in. I haven't got all day." Lacy waved her hand with a smile. She was short—five foot nothing—and the desk and papers overwhelmed her small stature. But her brown eyes and hair were warm and welcoming, which was a good facade for her. She was quite possibly the loudest, most obnoxious agent in the business, speaking open-heartedly, with little censor.
As a meager peace offering, Rayne passed over one of the two Macchiatos she had wasted more time picking up on her way. Most days, Rayne was thankful she lived in the same bustling metropolis as her agent. It made it easier to get together to chat about upcoming works, deals, or their plans for the future. However, as of late, having to take the train and come to her office never meant anything good.
"Thanks. I suppose this is the least you could do." Lacy raised the cup in the air, in mock cheer, and took a tiny sip. She shivered. "Yummy." Then she set it on top of a stack of papers. "Sit down. We have lots to talk about."
Hesitantly, Rayne walked around the chair and plunked down. She wondered if she should start groveling now or wait. A silent beat or two passed, Lacy’s eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a hard line. She pushed the bangs off her forehead, and Rayne shriveled under the scrutinizing stare.
"Rayne, what the fuck?" she finally spoke.
Ah, yes, there was the real Lacy Brown. Rayne shrugged and looked away. It was worse than sitting in the principal's office in high school. Sweat formed on her hands. Rayne rubbed them against her jeans, then fidgeted with frayed ends of the holes she'd paid for in the fabric.
"No, really. What. The. Fuck? You're late. Actually you're twice late because the publisher already gave you an extension. They're pissed. Hell, I'm pissed. You can see that, right? How pissed off I am?"
Meekly, Rayne replied, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Yes. I know. I can see it."
"No. I don't think you know the gravity of the situation we're both in. The publisher wants to see the first draft of the book in a month. Please, God, tell me you have something to give them. The entire world wants—no, needs—to know what happens to Clara and Dexter." Lacy stood from the desk and walked around, her eyes leveling with Rayne's. "And everyone wants to get paid. This is still a business."
With a deep inhale, Rayne said, "I'm sorry. I-I don't have it."
Lacy frowned. "It's been almost two years, Rayne, what's the problem?"
What was the problem? Rayne knew, from the moment Clara and Dexter materialized, how their epic love story would end. It was always meant to be a trilogy; that was how she'd pitched it to her agent, and how Lacy had sold it to the publisher, and now... Now, they hung in the air. She couldn't figure out how to get the words in her brain onto the page. She couldn't remember why she loved writing so much because now, it was a job. Rayne had lost sight of the bigger picture. It was all deadlines and book tours. Sure, she loved the money she'd made. Going from nearly destitute, to well-off, in the short span of two years. When her first series came out, hitting the bestseller charts immediately and becoming a hit, Rayne had almost become unstoppable.
But the fire that always fuelled her will to write had been extinguished, and now she owed her agent and publisher a book she didn't think she could ever write. Rayne was exhausted. Perhaps she’d risen too high, too fast, and this was the payback. She'd lost her muse, the voice in her head that helped paint the pictures to her novels, filling her with the confidence and words that needed to be written. It was gone.
"I-I don't know." Rayne exhaled the breath she'd been holding, and put her head in her hands. "I'm lost. It's lost."
"Oh, honey, nothing is ever truly lost," Lacy said, her high pitched voice taking on a soothing tone. "You just have to get back to it, and write. At this point, we'll take anything. Anything, Rayne, is better than nothing."
"Right. Okay. So, a month? Are you serious?" That wasn't good. At all. Most of the drafts Rayne had turned over had taken several. The fact that she hadn't even typed the opening line to the final installment of Clara and Dexter's book was a frightening thought.
"Am I ever not serious?" Lacy said, but her attention had shifted to the pile of crap on her desk. She fingered through some papers until she found what she wanted, turning back around towards Rayne. "Here." She held out a piece of paper. "I'm not a hand-holder, you know that, but this is a desperate time."
Rayne grabbed the page, but she would have sworn her eyes deceived her as she read. "This is the confirmation number to a flight?"
"And a hotel. I'm forcing you to take a vacation. You need it. Your book needs it. Different scenery might help spark something, and who knows, maybe you'll turn that book in ahead of the one-month deadline."
Overwhelmed, Rayne stood up and threw herself at her agent, hugging her tightly. Lacy was rigid, but a few seconds later, she relaxed and returned the gesture as best she could. "Thank you! I swear I can do this. I know I can."
"You don't have
a choice, honey. If you don't turn in the novel, things are going to get ugly. And trust me, you haven't seen me ugly yet."
If that were true, Rayne definitely didn't want to see Lacy ugly. Even on her best day, Lacy was a force. Something told Rayne that if she couldn't turn in the book—well, that would most likely be the end of her career as an author. The pang she felt in her heart was the first emotion in a while that made her realize she wasn't ready to lose everything she'd spent years building. She had always aspired to be an author, and couldn't imagine doing anything else. It was just a dry spell. Writers had them all the time, and maybe Lacy was right, a trip, a change in scenery, and one hell of a deadline, was going to get her back on track. It had to.
After taking the train back to her neck of the woods, Rayne was still jittering with excitement. It had been years since she'd been on a vacation. She'd traveled, lots, but it was all in the name of “Authorly Duties.” She had fun, sure. It was awesome to meet fans, sign books—that never seemed to get old—and mingle with fellow authors. They were always an interesting bunch and partied like there was no tomorrow. However, when she came home, usually more exhausted than when she left, she never felt like she had much time to herself to relax and enjoy the time away from home.
Walking the bustling streets, Rayne headed to her favorite grocery store. Sadly, she wouldn't be leaving for another two days, which meant she'd have to pick up a few things to get her through. She was a terrible cook; accidents often happened when she was in front of the stove. Mostly she relied on take-out, the microwave, or if need be, something she could toss in the oven. Something, of course, that wouldn't be burnt to a crisp too badly when the smoke alarm went off in her third-floor apartment because she’d forgotten about it.
There was a chill in the air, and Rayne pulled the lapels of her coat up in an effort to combat it. She rubbed her hands together and turned the corner, paying more attention to the concrete her heels clicked against than where she was walking.