đź“–A Muse in Mourning
I was searching for something else when I came across an old story I’d drafted but not edited in 2013 for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writer’s Month, which has—sadly—shut down for good). I’m thinking of finishing it, so I thought I’d get some opinions and thoughts from readers here. Please comment and share your reactions and ideas to the opening page of chapter 1 for my novel A Muse in Mourning. Thanks!
She just isn’t listening anymore. I’ve tried everything: the soft whisper of an idea, the steady hum of a conversation, and finally, the shrill scream of a shout. I believe I’ve exhausted every trick a muse has to get her subject’s attention, but the signal seems dead. She can’t—or won’t—hear me anymore.
Six months ago, when her father left her mother and sister and she moved back home to help, I felt Cameo begin to pull away from me. Between busy and exhausted, her mind had no time for even a tiny jewel of creative thought. I fought for her. I am a relentless fighter. But she started turning a deaf ear to my ideas; to my voice. It wasn’t just silence either; it was a thickening of the air, like a sorrowful fog had engulfed her. Now, there is no more resonance. There is just the heavy, quiet of a room where no one speaks. What am I supposed to do when the very expression of my being has buried herself in such deep grief and sadness?
We were born into this world as a pair, an ancient spark of creativity, and a brand-new heart filled with creative potential. We are the same thing, just experienced from different sides. But now she’s letting the fire go out just to keep her mother’s mourning company. She is trying to be a good daughter, but at what cost to herself? If she refuses to listen to my voice, she will calcify. She’ll become a monument to the girl she used to be—her mind becoming an unworkable stone with no creative spark; a relic of a daughter instead of a living, breathing woman. And if she settles into that lifeless state, I flicker out.
A week ago, I couldn’t take the distance anymore. I abandoned the edges of her mind and got right in her ear. “Cameo!” I screamed, my voice breaking. “Please, just hear me.” I was crying by then, begging her to feel the pulse of the heart we share. “Write, Cameo. Just pick up a pen. Draw a stick figure. Anything to bridge the gap between us. Don’t just bury your face in the glow of that screen to escape the shadows of this house. You bought that device to build a world, not to hide from this one. Your life depends on it.”
I added the last part in a ragged whisper: “And so does mine.”
So, do you want to know more? Does the title and opening page grab you and stir your curiosity? Does the story of a caregiver being too worn out to be creative resonate with any of you?
I have so many books and stories started, and they tumble around in my mind making sure I won’t forget them. But sometimes, one pops up unexpectedly and begs me to work on it. And now I invite you to join me on the journey.
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