The Storyteller's Muse

by Traci Harding

  DEDICATION

  For all the amazing authors

  who have been my writing siblings and confidants

  throughout my writing life.

  This book draws inspiration from you all.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  List of Characters

  Inspiration

  The Set-Up

  Characters

  Development

  Plot

  The Transcendental Creative

  Subplot

  A Turning Point

  Writer’s Block

  Research

  Writers’ Group

  A Period Piece

  Plot Twist

  Chasing Clues

  Fieldwork

  Anti-Climax

  The End

  Epilogue — The Prologue

  About the Author

  Also by Traci Harding

  Copyright

  LIST OF CHARACTERS

  Author — Penelope Whitman

  Night nurse — Peter Lemond

  Day nurse — Gabrielle Valdez

  Gabrielle’s grandmother — Alejandra

  Literary agent — Fabrizia Zenton

  Relief nurse — Rebecca Henly

  Paranormal romance author — Denise ‘Denny’ Yin

  Dark fantasy author — Fred E Books — Food Slayer

  Horror author — Spooky Burns

  Eco-thriller author — Joe Jackman

  Historical fantasy author — Tamar Ruban

  Housekeepers, Whitman estate — Wilfred and Thelma Eddington

  Penelope’s daughter — Evelyn Porter

  Penelope’s lawyer — Martyn Webster

  Real estate agent — Barry

  West End Construction — Steve

  The Apartment

  The writer — Nathaniel Fitzroy

  The dancer — Monique Poe

  The painter — Tyme Dancer

  The musician — Julian Cooper-Smith

  Julian’s band: Max — drums, Kevin — bass, Tommy — keyboards

  The ghost — Em Jewel

  Nathaniel’s wife — Jenna

  Nathaniel’s baby daughter — Amy

  Julian’s girlfriend — Sofie

  1950s

  The writer — Penelope Cavanagh

  The dancer — Isabelle Basque

  The musician — Billy Boyle

  The artist — Fabian Donati

  1916–40s

  The artist — Emanuel Fairchild

  The cellist — Emeline Fairchild

  The butler — Henry Chesterfield

  The collector — Lord Reginald Pettigrew ‘Proudfoot’

  Lord Pettigrew’s manservant — Mr Hugo Perkins

  Head maidservant — Mrs Beech

  Midwife — Sister Janet Cole

  Emeline’s assistant — Alice Roy aka Maggie (Margret) Wright

  Gallery owner — Miss Florence Manning

  ‘I write, therefore I am.’

  INSPIRATION

  Penelope’s favourite place had always been her own mind, so growing old didn’t particularly bother her. As long as she could still follow her own train of thought, she would happily keep herself amused until her ageing body finally called it quits. Her eyes were useless — even with several sets of glasses she could no longer read for any great length of time. Her hands were inflamed with arthritis, as were most of her joints. She could have continued to write by dictating her tales, a technique she’d tried for her last book, five years ago. The frustration of working with someone else had put her off ever attempting the feat again. Her writing life was over. She’d shared as much of herself as she cared to and now her imagination was her own.

  It was a stormy evening, the rain pounded against the large windows of her room; Penelope had always found such conditions conducive to writing — perhaps because she had no desire to be outdoors and wasn’t missing out on a beautiful day. Not that it mattered too much; she’d create in any conditions, but rainy days were truly inspirational.

  There was one tale that she had been musing forever that she had not set to paper, as other stories had taken priority or proven more viable for the marketplace. She’d made up a million reasons over the years not to write it down as, in truth, this one scared her a little. But the muse of story was still hanging around in her mind, running and rerunning scenes, and Penelope knew this would not cease until she gave them form.

  This tale took place in a haunted studio apartment that was predisposed towards its tenants being artistic. There were four main ‘living’ characters: two young men and two young women, all friends and all looking for a studio space in which to pursue their individual passions — dance, writing, painting and music.

  Penelope admired all the arts and she loved writing stories about young people, as through them she could still experience the joy, passion, frustration and heartbreak of youth. Penelope was a young woman on the inside, not at all weary of living, despite how her physical form begged to differ. Still, via her characters she could continue to explore all those endeavours that she’d not quite got around to pursuing due to her dedication to her writing life.

  She hadn’t decided which of her characters did what yet, but she did know one of the young men was the writer in the group. Individually, her characters could not afford to hire their own studio on a full-time basis, but they’d realised that if they pooled their resources they could have a studio for the equivalent of one week a month.

  ‘Ms Whitman?’

  Penelope, disturbed from her musing, opened her eyes to find the fuzzy outline of a nurse standing over her. She reached across to the bedside table for her glasses and, with them on her nose, she realised that she’d never seen this nurse before. He was tall and lanky, but rather easy on the eye. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Peter Lemond, Ms Whitman. I’m the new night nurse and I’m here to give you —’

  ‘I know why you are here.’ Penelope pulled back her blanket to expose her needle-marked legs.

  As she didn’t get around much any more, she had blood-thinners injected at least once a day; twice if she didn’t get out for a walk. The royalties from her tales in print and on screen kept her in the tranquil, comfortable surrounds of the best aged-care home the city had to offer. The staff were both competent and considerate, she’d made sure of that before she’d moved herself in — she’d be damned if she was going to end up being mistreated by the very people she paid to take care of her!

  Peter moved into position beside her as he unpackaged the syringe. ‘This won’t take a sec —’

  ‘Please don’t talk . . . you’ll disturb my train of thought,’ Penelope requested politely, closing her eyes to endure the stabbing and recapture her last vision.

  ‘I was told you are a famous author; are you working on a story?’

  Perhaps he ignored her request in the hope of distracting her from the pending jab in the leg.

  ‘Trying.’

  ‘Is the story for publication?’

  ‘Perhaps in the next life.’ Penelope could not regain focus and lost her patience. ‘Could we please just get this over with?’

  ‘I’m done,’ Peter announced with good cheer.

  ‘What?’ Penelope was rather surprised and opened her eyes — she hadn’t felt a thing! ‘You’re very good.’ She pulled the blanket back over herself.

  The young, dark-haired nurse shrugged off the praise. ‘So why bother creating a story you never intend to publish?’

  Penelope chuckled. ‘You’re obviously not a writer.’

  ‘What makes you so certain?’ The young man appeared a little insulted.

  Penelope was surprised to note that he might have aspirations, but considering the q
uestion he’d just asked she felt he had no real passion and would never realise his dream.

  ‘A writer doesn’t write to be published,’ Penelope stated indignantly. ‘A true writer writes because if they did not write, they would go mad! I’ve only ever created tales for my own enjoyment and although I’ve aged beyond penning my stories for publication, the flow of inspiration has never stopped, nor would I wish it to.’

  ‘Why not get someone —’

  Penelope held up a hand to stop the questions, which she was forced to answer every time a new nurse was assigned to her. ‘Please, I’ve been through this before and have no desire to keep explaining myself. You just do your nurse thing and I’ll do my story thing and never the twain shall meet.’

  ‘Actually, Ms Whitman, I have an idea for a manuscript,’ Peter ventured despite her suggestion.

  Penelope chuckled under her breath and shook her head. ‘I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that,’ she explained, dryly. ‘I’ll bet you’ve never read a word I’ve written?’

  Peter became uncomfortable. ‘Well, no, I haven’t, but —’

  ‘Then how do you know you want advice from me?’ Penelope scoffed.

  ‘Point taken.’ Peter appeared very put in his place. ‘I’ll go and fetch your dinner then.’ He backed up a few paces and left quietly.

  Even with her glasses, Penelope had not been able to see the young man’s disappointed expression, but she’d heard it in his voice. She’d been a keen mentor once but now she was just a grumpy, cynical old woman, sick of young people wanting to pick her brain in their pursuit of quick celebrity and fortune. A word of recommendation from her mouth could produce a bestseller and every would-be knew it. Surely she’d done enough for her craft over the years? Now it was time to be selfish, as she had been when she was a young girl, before anyone had ever discovered that her imagination was an amazing place.

  For the next few nights Peter did not allow their conversation to veer towards the subject of writing. The nurse performed his duties quietly and considerately — just the way she liked it.

  All the same, Penelope wasn’t getting any respite from the story in her head — every waking hour, and even in her sleep, the same scenes kept replaying. That was the trouble with not writing a story down, it was easy to lose focus or forget vital details. Thus she kept going back to the beginning and seemed destined to remain forever trapped there. Of late, she’d been more tired than usual and more prone to headaches. This bloody story was wearing her down, but she was not about to mention this to her medical staff for fear she’d get moved to the psych ward.

  As Peter finished checking her vital signs, she watched as he once again painlessly administered her shot.

  ‘Why is it that when you give me a needle I don’t feel it?’ Penelope was rather in awe of his talent.

  ‘We have an oversupply of long needles, so we are supposed to use them up.’ Peter leaned closer to whisper his secret. ‘But I always use the short ones.’

  ‘Ahhh . . .’ Penelope drawled, enlightened.

  ‘But you didn’t learn that from me,’ he added and winked, and for a brief moment Penelope was charmed. ‘I’ve read your first trilogy,’ Peter finally ventured.

  ‘Oh really.’ Penelope was instantly irked that he’d bothered to overcome her protest to his last attempt to ask her for advice.

  ‘I didn’t realise your knowledge of the spiritual, occult and supernatural world was so extensive; it’s very akin to my own interests,’ he finished, politely.

  ‘You can’t have been getting much writing done if you were reading me,’ Penelope said. ‘Are you a reader or a writer, Peter?’

  Peter appeared rather thrown by her comeback. ‘I am both.’

  ‘I never read anyone else,’ the old author scoffed. ‘I never asked for anyone’s advice and, just for the record, I never did a writing course either! You’re either a storyteller or you’re not.’ She stopped short of asking the nurse if he had a story to tell, for fear he’d start spouting a synopsis at her.

  Peter placed his rubbish in the bin, and looked back to the author, appearing rather determined.

  ‘She spoke to me of mystery,

  of far-off lands and adventure.

  In my darkest hours, she was there,

  to soothe my soul with cheerful banter.

  But I was not living in the real world,

  a life with her would have led to ruin,

  so I spurned her loyal attentions

  and quit shooting for the moon.

  I blocked her attempts to make contact,

  I was young, and I was cruel.

  The precious gift of her devotion,

  wasted on a fool.

  Bound now to society’s grind,

  my psyche screams to be set free.

  My repentant heart seeks my first true love

  in the hope she still waits for me.’

  Penelope was rather delighted by his impromptu recitation. ‘That’s rather romantically tragic, who wrote that?’

  ‘I did,’ Peter informed her. ‘I called it, The Storyteller’s Muse.’

  Upon discovering that his poem was in fact about a lost muse and not a lost lover, Penelope was quietly impressed, for she could relate to the sentiment and felt it quite insightful. ‘Then it’s even more tragic.’

  ‘Thank you, I think?’ Peter accepted the praise graciously. ‘For the record . . . I thought your stories were wonderful.’ He turned on his heel to depart.

  ‘Even for an old broad?’ Penelope still loved to hear her praises sung — her ego was in fine shape — and Peter turned back to indulge her further.

  ‘Stories that talk to the soul don’t date, Ms Whitman. You have an enviable talent. I’ll be back to check on you again presently; your blood pressure is a little high for my liking, but we’ll give the shot a few moments to take effect and then see where we are.’ He left, wearing the same smile he’d entered with.

  ‘Enviable . . . even at my age,’ Penelope chuckled to herself, and then held her head as a twinge of pain warned of a pending headache. She closed her eyes to rest them.

  Her thoughts were immediately drawn to the story, and Penelope wondered after the name of the young male writer in her tale, which had eluded her all week; it was easy to imagine the young male nurse in the role. I think I shall call him Peter. Finally she had a clear picture of her main character as he walked through the door to inspect the empty studio warehouse and the clarity of the vision made her smile and shudder at once.

  It was painful to consider trusting someone else with her story after what had happened last time around, but it didn’t seem right to hold that against Peter, who seemed a nice young fellow. Perhaps she should cut him, and herself, a break and offer Peter the chance to see her writing process in action? The notion sat well with Penelope, and her muse seemed to be appeased also as for the first time in five years her story vision ceased its relentless replay and she fell into a dreamless slumber.

  When Peter returned to check Ms Whitman’s vital signs, she appeared to be fast asleep. Or perhaps she was formulating her never-to-be-published story, and so he went about his duty quietly.

  What he wouldn’t give to have plot lines and publishing deals to burn! Still, he couldn’t blame her, for, having read up on Ms Whitman’s illustrious writing career, he had come to understand her reservations.

  Penelope Whitman’s last book had been the first work of her entire career to be co-authored, and with a previously unknown writer — who just so happened to have been Ms Whitman’s former nurse, who had volunteered to aid the ageing author to transcribe her tale from audio to page. The claimant had threatened to take Penelope to court if she did not acknowledge her creative contribution with a co-author credit. Ms Whitman’s defence lawyers challenged this claim, stating that even though the transcriber may have made some suggestions to embellish the story and had rearranged a few words, that was editing, not writing, and it was still Penelope’s story. However
, not wishing to have her name dragged through the mud at this last stage of her career, Penelope had agreed to the credit and awarded the claimant half the royalties from the book.

  Neither writer had published a word since.

  Was it any wonder that Ms Whitman refused to discuss her tales with anyone these days? It also explained why she was so negative about the intentions and aspirations of other would-be writers, and why she might be hesitant to share her great knowledge of the writing process and industry with him. He felt he’d really blown his chances, bringing up the topic of writing before Ms Whitman had really had a chance to get to know him. But life had thrown him too few opportunities to fulfil his dream to waste this one. He wanted so desperately to be mentored through the writing process. He had so many ideas and no clue how to formulate them into something that was interesting to read — let alone spellbinding, as Penelope Whitman’s books were.

  ‘If you wanted to be a writer, Peter, why did you become a nurse?’ she asked quietly, as if she was just talking in her sleep.

  ‘I became a nurse to appease my father. He actually wanted me to be a doctor, but I didn’t have the passion. For me it was only ever meant to be something to fall back on, but with all the study my writing aspirations got shelved and forgotten . . . until I met you,’ Peter replied as honestly as he could. ‘I imagined that you might have been my destiny coming around to remind me of what I was once really passionate about . . . and after reading your books, which are all about creating your own reality, I felt even more convinced of it. But I did a little research into the debacle your last book caused you and I cannot imagine you are very keen to —’

  ‘Are you writing something at present?’ Penelope spoke over him, seeming impatient, or perhaps wanting to avoid the topic.

  ‘Just bits and pieces, really.’ Peter wished he had something more impressive to say. ‘I have all these ideas but —’

  ‘That would be a no then,’ Penelope stated, having heard it all before. ‘Good,’ she continued, and Peter was perplexed. ‘I find it incredibly difficult to work on more than one tale at once.’