Every writer has a muse.
Some writers I know have male ones, some have females, and some have
muses that aren't even human.
I've known my muse my whole life, but I met him when I was
34 years old. So, that’s how old he is
to me, and always will be. Yes, I met
him in person. I walked past a stranger
and we did double and triple takes; a bizarre recognition of sorts, I’d like to
believe.
My muse’s name is David. I don’t know how I know this, I
just know. He has short sandy blonde
hair and piercing green eyes. He’s my
champion. If I haven’t written anything
for awhile, he doesn’t hound me like some other writer’s muses do. He’s understanding. Whenever I sit to write,
he’s there offering me coffee (with sugar and milk), and supportive words. He has a good sense of humor, and can easily
laugh at himself. He gently reminds me
not to take myself, or life, too seriously.
David’s hobby is cars.
He collects classic cars and rebuilds them. How do I know this? I have no idea, I just do. His current project has been a 1967 red
Corvair convertible. He isn’t the type
of guy that takes his regular driver to the shop either. He knows what to do and does it without
complaining, although he may goof up and laugh at himself.
My job is to write.
His job is to encourage and inspire.
Thank you for coming into my life, David, and for being my
muse. As you reveal more of your
personality to me, you make your way into every hero that I write.
photo of Ewan McGregor, representative :-)
