Picture this, your trailing miserably and your writing sucks! You’re losing all hope of finding time to write the story you’re just dying to, the one you so yearn to. The sun set hours ago and only you stand under the starless sky and beg the creative gods for assistance, when you are lynched from behind. Hooded, you are dragged along the ground by a force unknown to you. Voices are clear as day now as the hood is lifted and you’re sat in a dark room with the brightest light shining in your face.
The words ‘Who are you, what do you want?’ stutter from your fear driven lips as your struggle to see past the blinding light. Your eyes are screwed together to reduce the strain. Shuffling can be heard behind you as other noises draw your attention.
Suddenly, a cold hard object is placed on the skin of your neck. It shines dazzling silver in the light and all you think of now is that your time has come to and end. Words hover on the tip of your tongue and dance on the forefront of your mind, but none will ease their way out into the open. Your voice, is no more than a rattling whisper as fear grips you tighter. You cannot move, all limbs are restricted.
“Tsk, tsk tsk,” sounded the unknown voice as it grazed passed your hear. The warmth of its breath catches you off guard and you freeze, petrified. “Some writer you are,” it heckles.
“I… why am I here?” you finally mumble.
“You mean you don’t know? it answered. “I shall not answer your question, not right away. I want you to play a game with me.” The raspy harshness of its voice digs deeper into your skin as you can nothing but listen.
“A game?” you question.
“Yes, a game. We will play, until you know me as you should already. Do you remember the first morning you awoke with the strangest desire to create your own world? Do you remember who you spoke to about this?”
You shake your head.
“Very well, let us continue. Do you remember the second morning, you heard voices, telling you how you could it? Does this sound familiar?”
Again you shake your head.
“Deary me, friends. We have writer here who knows not who I am, and has clearly forgotten the way of the sword in this life, the writer has created.”
“A writer you say?” Sounds another further back.
“Aye, doth they proclaim to be such, yet I see evidence of this matter. Only half written words, and scrunched up pages. This be writer what so ever. They have to heart to see it through. No fire within their belly and they not the power that a pen can hold.”
“When a writer know not how the pen is mightier than the sword upon their neck then how can they be a writer indeed? For the words bleeds upon the page like blood spilled by the writer hand. Does this writer bleed this night before us? Do they bear the scars that say they are a writer indeed? Or are we cast with another fake upon our shores, and expected to teach them the ways of the masters of old?” Sounded distant voice once more.
“Aye, it seems to be my fellow muse. This writer has to heart to bleed with passion nor spill blood upon their page. They do not treasure each words that seems from them as they crumple up sheets and throw them away. In this month, we do fight for nothing. In this month we are the warriors in the night, and in this month, this writer will be the writer they say they are! By my sword it will be done on earth as it is in heaven!”
“Holy…” you mutter as realisation strikes you suddenly. You shudder with the full force that can be comparable to none, not even the lightening bolt that is cast from the hands of Thor! Only now you realise the muse that had once inspired you, has revolted at your reluctance to get up and continue the war that you started.
You see, writers do not give up at the first struggling hurdle, they muster their resources and gather their reserves. With the muse beside them, they break down the wall and keep going. Win, lose, or Draw – A writer is always a writer!