Volatile Rune

For Life and Literature in a Volatile World

(Short) Conversation with a Muse

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D. Wallace Peach over at Myths of the Mirror has challenged us to imagine a conversation with our muse.

I don’t know what my muse looks like.  He or she is shy, spends a great deal of time in absentia,  on holiday perhaps (think Robin Williams -bless him – as the genie,  finally freed from thousands of years stuck in a bottle).

In order to take part in this challenge, I had to tempt him or her to make an appearance.

I write both poems and fiction and I often use images of ghosts and rivers/seas/water so perhaps my muse is a water sprite.

A water sprite with a short attention span, I think not always helpful yet always in a hurry.   And probably wearing odd socks.

***

Muse:  Hey!

Frances:  There you are at last.

Muse: I’m a bit pushed for time.  Got anything to show me?

Frances:    This is what I’ve done so far.  Distractedly presents a few disordered pages of typewritten notes with crossings out at which muse cursorily glances.

A horrible silence ensues.

Muse:  What’s that supposed to mean?

Frances:   What?

Muse:  That! (Points with sprite-ly fingers).  That bit there – about the quarry.

Frances:  Well, what are we trying to say here? I consider that the appropriate metaphor in this situation would be that which, notwithstanding the potentiality for oxymoron,   properly indicates a discretely  blended atmosphere of luminosity and critical acuity of the piece I’m … why what’s wrong with it?

Muse:  It doesn’t even make sense.   I mean there isn’t a quarry in Walthamstow – trust me.

Frances:    Yes.  But this is fiction.

Muse:  And don’t even get me started on the first line – about the clocks.  I mean ridiculous or what?

Frances:  I thought it was rather good.  Original you know.

Muse:  Whoever heard of a clock striking thirteen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Volatile Muse

Poetry, literature, film and all things in between

Runes are ancient scripts, magical signs for secret or hidden laws.   I chose a name which I felt brought to mind the infinitely variable nature of the written word.

 

The Volatile Muse

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