Your Muse, and You
You find yourself at the keyboard, ready to give to the world. The muse inside yourself cackles as it takes over and sets the scene. Your fingers tap the board like a guitarist doing a riff on autopilot. Your muse doesn’t care about you or the others as it works its magic. It cares about the story. It cares about the characters in it, and how they react in your mind’s eye. The keyboard sings a song, you melodiously plod along. You sip your coffee. Perhaps it’s tea? You continue, and long after your hot cup turns cold, so does your muse. It loses inspiration, and vanishes away for you to edit and clean its sloppy creation. Do what you will with that unfiltered story. However, I have a few things to say for the writer that questions their muse and the characters they create.
In Episode 137 of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine “Far Beyond the Stars”, a preacher was telling aspiring black writer Benny Russell, a dream version of Captain Sisko, to: “Write the words.” During the entirety of the episode, Sisko’s dream character was perplexed about the preacher’s meaning, but took his preaching to mean it was about the story he was writing. Through hardship, Russell kept asking the preacher why, and he only kept telling him: “Write those words,” not just for himself, but in the name of the prophets! Like the muse screaming inside your head to get its idea on paper, damn it!
So Russell digs deep, and writes an epic story about the leader of Deep Space Nine, Captain Benjamin Sisko, and his adventures. Familiar? While receiving high praise from his writing peers, Russell’s editor in chief thought Russell’s black character was too unbelievable for readers to accept. He offered Russell to change his character to a white man, but there was no such thing. It was Russell’s character, and his alone! Towards the end of the episode, Russell broke down sobbing after refuting that the world could not tear away ideas that were his.
In my opinion, Russell was talking about his creativity. His muse. His story. Why take away something so plainly created despite racial intolerance? The episode brings home the point that whatever your muse creates should be set in stone. It’s not something that should be changed easily. If you wrote the story, it’s offensive to the author to demand a change of character to satisfy the reader. It would certainly offend me. I would say it was my muse that created the story, and that’s what it came up with. There is no compromise there.
Some may rebut: “But the writer is black, creating a black character. That should be fine. We’re talking about a white writer creating a black character!” Phooey. That’s like saying Stephen King can’t write The Green Mile. That’s like telling Kathryn Stockett she should never have written The Help because she could never understand the suppressed black minority of the 1960’s era. That’s bullcrap. Can people not empathize with people? Isn’t sharing the plight of others not a caring deed? Did you not retell the terrible story that befell your friend to others? People talk. It’s what we do best. The fact that authors write down what they hear and see doesn’t make their storytelling wrong. Stockett has become a best selling author because of her courage to tell an uncomfortable yet riveting story, not out of ignorance for African American hardship. Steven King put John Coffey on death row, and I’m sure some people find King’s story to be rather racist because of it. Those that do must have limited imaginations, as they only pay attention to the facts, and not the story. I’m sure Mr. King would be happy to report that he doesn’t care about the feelings he hurt when writing about Coffey. Though, I certainly want to curse his muse for putting such a lovable character there.
So when does it become too much? If Steven King could write about a black man on death row, why can’t I? And there’s truth to this. I think that for a majority of unpaid and free style writers, nothing is too much! Be racist and spiteful to your heart’s content! Like I said, stereotypes should mean nothing to your muse. But be warned. Racism and bigotry without context will make inconsistent money, and few friends.
What if you were a serious writer then? Well, there’s King, and Stockett. These two writers have the understanding that it takes care to make these characters realistic despite the authors deriving them from out of context. (Out of skin?) Though, I’d argue that King didn’t need stereotypes when the reality of Southern racism explains Coffey’s predicament perfectly. Stockett’s book has the exact same underlying theme, except it dives into the workplace instead of a penitentiary. Their stories work for publishers because that context helps make Coffey, Aibileen, and Yule May real to readers. Even if the truth hurts. We all know what it means to not be accepted, and it’s not all black and white. Realism matters to readers because if they can imagine it, then it’s real enough to them. They’ll go with you and the characters your muse creates.
What about profanity? Should I be afraid of cuss words? Should you? Do certain words belong to certain people? No. All words belong in the dictionary, and it’s all free to use. You don’t have to be black to say the “N” word in your story, but I do think you have to respect the context of the word, and take care for how realistic it is in the setting. You should certainly be ready to take responsibility for it.
Ultimately, I think you have to respect the work it takes to make the characters real. A better writer should focus on making great characters, not trying to find ways to make the writing harder for the writer. I would recommend you write the words, but your muse is already telling you that, isn’t it? Well, you better do it soon. It’s preaching, and I can hear it.
Write the words!
Seven Days of Sin
Well, it’s about that time. Our world leaders can finally stop arguing over which strain of government is most effective, how to disperse the world’s wealth, and whose god has the biggest dick. Citing irreconcilable differences, each nation will be launching their reservoir of missiles, torpedos, warheads, and chemicals in exactly seven days. This will put an end to the great creator’s Petri dish experiment called humanity.
I, for one, welcome the complete and utter evisceration of our species. Bring on the nukes! That being said, you’re damn right I intend on living it up during this final half fortnight. And what better way to live it up than in observance of the seven deadly sins? What fun! I will devote each 24-hour cycle to one of the seven, a sin for every day. I still haven’t decided the order. I suppose I have some thinking to do.
Day 1: Lust
This was a no-brainer. And a decision I certainly do not regret. In short, my day was spent fornicating: women, men, transexuals, transgenders, non-binaries, pansexuals. I fucked them all. And let me tell you, it was quite liberating. Disregarding all preconceived notions, all inhibitions, all judgements.
If not for this doomsday declaration, I never would have experienced such a smorgasbord of stimulation. With a plug for every orifice, a clamp for every growth, I have never felt so fulfilled or so close to my fellow man. Speaking of, here’s another one. I’m afraid I won’t have any more time to write today.
Day 2: Sloth
After a day of much energy expenditure, this seemed like the logical follow-up. My morning began perfectly; noon had long passed by the time I awoke. In my early atrophy hours, I ordered a grease clusterfuck delivery pizza, which was fed to me by a helper monkey (God bless you, Juju). And then I slipped into a vegetative state for several hours.
I don’t want to give the impression that this day was wasted. Not in the slightest. Everyone needs a day to unwind, to free his or her mind from all worries. The world was nothing more than a speck in my rearview mirror. My stars, I. Am. Refreshed.
Day 3: Envy
I was never covetous of the traditional red, white, and blue-blooded pleasures: luxury cars, three-tiered mansions, my neighbor’s wife. Instead, I envied those who could stir emotions with nothing more than globs of paint or molded hunks of clay. It is for this reason that I lifted several pieces from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. (I was met with little resistance, as art holds virtually no value since the news of our impending destruction.)
However, as I gaze at the Van Gogh self portrait hanging from my wall, the burning pangs of envy subside. I scribble these last phrases through a misty haze, as I have been moved to tears. For the first time, the overwhelming splendor of artistic creation has taken hold of me. I don’t mean to get so weepy; I will spare you from any further details.
Day 4: Pride
Void of anything resembling pride, I decided to exact revenge on those pitiful creatures of hubris. After much reflection and research, I set off for the homes of various local politicians (in my estimation, the greatest offenders of the titular sin) armed with such humbling artillery as rotten eggs, piss-glutted water balloons, and overripe tomatoes.
But my mission veered in a decidedly different direction when I met her at the corner of Jefferson and Ash. Her hair was a splindly dirt labyrinth, her hand clutched a corrugated cardboard sign. “Homeless, anything helps.” What better symbol of humility than this fallen angel? Off to my credit union we embarked, where I named her the heiress to half my fortune. I wish I could have given more, but funds are necessary for the waning stages of my plan.
Day 5: Greed
All my charity was undone in a day, a day that started with the most fitting ode to greed: on a flight to Las Vegas. The winged beast had barely touched down before I found myself basking in the sickly neon glow of the nearest shit-hole casino. Now, I’ve witnessed my share of heaters, but nothing like this. It was as if I could read the roulette wheel’s 666 mind, as if my sleeve was packed with unlimited aces. I held up countless one-armed bandits; slot machines vomited jackpot payouts, those never-ending hordes of money-sick contraptions.
It wasn’t long before my winnings exceeded the casino’s bankroll. And so we came to an agreement: I was to be the new casino owner. This was perfect, as I was no longer satiated by any amount of personal gain. Now I needed to consume the riches of others. Unfortunately, this too became monotonous. What I desired now was the complete destruction of the ravenous greed pit itself. And so I sardine-packed the casino with explosives and reduced the flashing and whirring breaker of dreams to nothing more than rubble. At last I was satisfied.
Day 6: Gluttony
Popular opinion would say to save this vice for last, to gorge oneself with unholy goodness and leave a powder keg of cholesterol creams, doughy crusts, and baked diabetes to explode with the rest of the world. Not me. As this is my last day in Las Vegas, the land of buffets, I could think of no better time or place to partake.
And partake I did. I won’t get into details, other than to say that my appetite was so vociferous that I mistook an employee’s finger for a cocktail weiner and made a bit of a mess. I wish I could say there was some great philosophical revelation my penultimate day, but I just ate a shit-ton of food. After being knocked temporarily unconscious by a heating tray for refusing to leave in a timely manner, I found myself on an airplane back home.
Day 7: Wrath
There’s nothing I can do with this one. No anger remains in me. I appreciate every moment I’ve breathed on this earth. I told loved ones that I loved them, apologized to those I wronged, and forgave those who hurt me. The remainder of my day was spent reading and sipping cocoa.
If there is any wrath to be doled out, however, let it be by the one worthy entity: Mother Earth. Humankind has failed this idyllic land-and-sea sphere and will commit the ultimate crime within the hour. I will not be around to see it, for the raging waves of the Atlantic will have welcomed me to eternal sleep. Peace out, bitches.
Johnathan’s Mind
"Johnathan, how long has this been going on?"
Timothy had been trying to reach Johnathan for months. He knew that much. But for Johnathan, he kept telling himself not to get in contact with him. With anyone.
He couldn't find the words to explain to his brother why.
why talk he can't help you
Visitation duty. Family matters.
now he's come to kill you
Johnathan leaned back in his chair, numb and unresponsive. He had decided to lay there for days. The only thing that kept him company was the loud television and the empty beer cans.
don't do nothing so nothing can hurt you
So you can hurt you.
don't trust him no don't
Johnathan's brother was talking to him, but he could only hear the droning in his mind:
kill yourself just kill yourself he knows you're a freak
No, no. John.
shutup! shutup shutup shutup!
Speak up, John.
busted you're busted just run run run
"John?" Timothy said. He waved his hands in front of his face.
Johnathan flinched. He stood up abruptly. "Get away from me!" He went to the door, clutching his head and ignoring his brother's pleas.
getaway getaway getaway
Where are you running, John?
"John, where are you going? You're in no condition!" Timothy broke through the droning.
somewhere anywhere but here
run from the fear
Timothy will miss you when you're gone, John.
Johnathan fumbled with the knob, shaking because of his own thoughts. He took his hand off the door, and turned to Timothy. He felt the tears welling in his eyes. He looked at him, feeling despair.
can't take it anymore not no more no
Can't take your own head?
not my head, your head you son of a bitch
just shoot it shoot yourself
John.
hopeless
"I'm sorry, Tim. I don't know what's going on anymore." Johnathan hung his head and dropped to his knees. He heard Timothy go closer to him. He held his head again.
attack he's trying to attack you
With a helping hand.
hands have weapons that will murder you with weapons yes
John's heart rate rose. A sudden jolt of adrenaline spiked, giving him that same familiar kick of fear that's plagued him nearly all his life.
run he will kill you
He fought it to the best of his ability, when finally Tim touched his shoulder. He knelt down with Johnathan.
"John," He said.
Johnathan was the deer in headlights.
don't cry you bitch you cry you lose you loser
Cry me a river.
cry me a river
Johnathan hugged Timothy harder than he's ever hugged him in his life. Timothy hugged him back just as hard. He howled and cried there. Timothy made them stand, still clutching to each other.
Eventually, Timothy lead him by the arm and through the entry way of his home. Johnathan continued sobbing the whole way down the steps. He tried explaining himself through the ordeal.
"I don't know what I'm thinking. It's like there's two of me, tearing me apart. I don't want to do it, but I do. they want to help and murder me too, I just can't keep track of them," Johnathan said between gulps of breath.
He was saying things he didn't understand, but a fraction of him thought that maybe Timothy understood what he meant.
numb just be numb you dead person you should die right now
Timothy would miss you.
"Just hold on, John," Timothy replied. His voice cracked. Johnathan saw the tears welling in him too.
hold on to what to the strands of spider silk in a bed of fear
To hold on, John.
Johnathan held on tighter to Timothy.
Once in the car, Timothy drove Johnathan to the hospital.
Notes:
Originally written for a writing prompt on reddit: https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/cwyspa/wp_you_are_the_inner_voice_of_a_schizophrenic_he/
The writing prompt was titled: [WP] You are the inner voice of a schizophrenic. He is ridden by cruel thoughts and you are the one keeping him from acting on it.
My reddit account is Journalismist.
Mirror
I wake up everyday and he’s there. That stranger in the mirror, he’s following me, he’s after my money, I know he is, thieving bastard.
Dad....thats you, its your reflection, remember? Who else would it be?
He won’t leave me alone, he wants my money, I know he does, i’ve seen him, and them nurses, they’re all after my money I know it
The nurses are looking after you, they don’t want your money dad, they’re here to help you
Thieving little things, they talk about me you know, they say things, they think I can’t hear them but I can. Just because im old doesn’t mean i’m stupid.
....Were going to try that new medicine, see if it helps. They say it works wonders, they’ve been trying it out on Alzheimers patients in America and the results have been really promis..
He wants my money, I know he does, they all do, they don’t want to work for a living, they just want it easy. Taking hard earned money from hard working people like me, thieving bastards. Well they’re not going to pull the wool over my eyes i’ll tell you now, im not stupid you know, im old, but I'm not stupid.
....I’ve got to go now dad, i’ll see you next week okay? Try to get some rest, you work yourself up all the time, its not good for you.
Place Mats
Lucy has written her life story
on hospital place mats.
Twelve years, two thousand dollars a week
in soft rooms. She
tried to get them typed, but the doctor
took everything. He said
she would only upset herself. At least
that’s what she told me that day
in the park. It was that kind of sky
you get in late September – the livid blue
that only comes when every drop
of moisture freezes on apples
and the yellow blooms
of squash or pumpkin – as children yelled
over by the monkey bars. I need to believe
that somewhere
someone writes it all down,
not just the atrocities -- soccer fields covered
in fresh turned soil, photographs hanging
on subway kiosks -- but placemats
scribbled with crayon, yellowing
in a hospital file cabinet, as the sun sets
over trees, and the light fades on Lucy
and me and the children arguing
by the sandbox.
D&C
My mom used to work in hospitals and nursing homes. Long shifts. Heavy lifting. Clean-up in Room 3. Spilled-guts. Spilled-bowels. Spilled-bladder. Spilled-blood. Human-spill. Spill-spillage. She’d come home to house, nighttime-still. She’d come home to pass-out, lack of sleep. Stumble down stairs, wash away fluids. Wash away E. Coli. Wash away sweat. Wash away death-stench. Pass-out lack of sleep. Repeat, next day. Lift-up crying. Lift-up disease. Lift-up dying. Lift-up human-spillage. Repeat. Lift-up human-spillage. Repeat. The babies never had a chance. Twins. Fallopian-tube, burst. Platelet, internal-vein explosion. Ghost-bleeding. Phantom-bleeding. Insides-bleeding. Also known as hemorrhage. Also known as dying. Also known as 8 hours screaming/fainting/shaking pain. Also known as doctor-induced abort mission. Ride or die. Abort mission or sleep-eternal. No blood left. So I could hold two still-borns. One mass explosion. The other clump of tadpole-mess. Save the unborn. Send the living home. Follow the plan. Return home. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Kill the mother, spare the child. Or spoon-scrape cervix. Tissue-removal. Tissue-removal. And I wake every day thanking the doctor that left her blood-cup-half-full. Pray to false god of saving lives. Return me home. Return me home.
At Some Point I Discovered
At some point I discovered if I stretched
on the rim of the bathtub in front of the window,
I could see over the half--curtain and into the bathroom
of the symmetrical unit across the alcove. One night, sloshing
soggy, in the cooling bathtub of 31 Brewster Street,
I saw the light come on across the way. To my amazement, Angelique,
the twenty--something nanny for the noisy toddlers
of the next--door, yuppie couple, was undressing
for her bath, not twenty feet away.
This was a living body – all
sweat and blood and flesh – and I was standing
on the edge of the bathtub, peering over
the curtain at her – blond hair, unraveling over
pale shoulders, plump arms, breasts – round and pale,
her bottom -- round and pale, as she
bent to remove the brown wool tights. I stretched
on my toes, to see everything -- dripping
and naked from my bath. And then she stiffened,
jerked abruptly upright, and to my horror
her blue eyes came full frontal to return my stare,
they were not fierce, I remember
or embarrassed, or even surprised -- more ironic, almost struck
with disbelief, at which, I became aware of my own
naked form, framed clearly in the window
of my own bathroom – my scrawny arms, hairless chest, everything
was plainly visible to her, perched as I was
on the rim of the tub. I remember her eyebrows
lifted slightly, amused and knowing. She smiled and then
in the next moment, it was I -- plunged in mortification -- who
turned to cover myself.