Monica is the first to admit that she’s not a full-time artist. Rather, she is a full-time accountant. With her limited free time, she manages a few strokes of the pen on stories that delve into the surreal and are much better than she gives herself credit for (according to her fellow writers). Monica is an active participant in the Kenora Writer’s Group as well as treasurer for LOWAC. Monica is seeking a publisher for her first novel, a fantastical tale of suspense and intrigue.
A sample of Monica’s writing for your reading pleasure…
It’s the End of the World as We know it
By Sue-Sama3845
From an author’s point of view being bored is horrible. Your muse and characters won’t understand it because they’ll all complain about how either A) you should be writing something you don’t want to or B) you should be doing something more productive with your life.
From a character’s point of view, a bored author is terrifying. When authors get bored they tend to write whatever comes to their mind in an attempt to rid themselves of the boredom. (Such as a story about boredom.) The characters then beg the muse to give the author ideas for a story that the author will refuse to write in hopes of avoiding any later complications. Very rarely does the muse ever listen without a few ideas in hand after doing so.
From the muse’s point of view, a bored author is good news. Not only does the muse get to torture the author and laugh when the author replies, “But I don’t want to write that!” but the muse also gets paid by the characters to give the author those ideas.
In a lose-lose situation for the author and characters, only the muse comes out on top and they work hard on maintaining the status quo. For if the author was somehow able to speak with and learn about their characters then the muse would no longer act as the go between. Worse yet, chaos would descend the like of which the written word has never seen before. However, nothing lasts forever. As an author continues to type a story in which she meets her characters, she does not understand the cracks she is putting in the delicate balance called reality.
With the final taps of the keys, she finishes the intro and the barriers breaks. The characters are free and they have something to say. They appeared…
With a content sigh, Serena stretched in her chair. She had finally found a way to combat her boredom. It had taken half a dozen tries but she had done it. Serena had finished a half decent intro to introduce her story in which she met her characters. Unfortunately, now that she had finished her intro she was left staring at the page, unsure how to introduce her characters. Would it be better to have them break down the door and kidnap her? Or should she pretend she lived with them?
And then she had it. Her fingers began to fly over the keyboard, every so often moving to the backspace button due to a mistake typed in her haste. Words began to spill over the page as she worked her way towards the plot. At that moment, her muse awoke. The girl was not aware of her muse taking form. To her, the word muse was another name for an imaginary friend, a random idea that appeared, or an explanation for a story running away from her preplanned plot. To Serena and all other humans, a muse was a metaphor. To the rest of reality, a muse was much more.
The shadow of Serena’s subconscious stirred as it floated over the back of her chair to read over her shoulder as the girl continued to type. The muse lazily read until it reached the moment Serena’s characters joined her avatar in the story. It considered the writing and found it childish. Considered the sentence structure and found it wanting. And finally considered the plot and considered it stupid. The girl had at least three other far more interesting stories to write so why was she wasting her time on this one? The muse had thought up a perfect ending to the girl’s long-running story. Wasn’t that more important than the silly little story the girl was working on now?
The muse floated over the keyboard and in front of the computer screen where the girl’s eyes roamed the appearing lines of text. It poked her in the forehead, trying to transfer its idea to the girl.
Serena, feeling the poke but not seeing the cause, paused to rub her forehead but continued to write. The idea that had just occurred to her could be written down later. Right now, she had to finish this plot.
The muse humphed as it drifted from the keyboard to on top of Serena’s head. It poked her again, this time in the temple. Serena lifted her hand to move hair away from the spot but continued typing one-handed.
Of course, the girl had her own ideas and wasn’t in the mood to listen, the muse thought as it continued to try to poke her in a different direction. Five minutes of typing and poking passed before the muse found itself annoyed. If it didn’t tell Serena the idea now, it would forget it and then it would get blamed when Serena couldn’t think of an ending. Obviously, there was only one thing to do.
Serena did not see the shadow take a step away from the desk and human girl. She did not see it raise itself up and spread out its arms like wings. It was not until the darkness started to shine in its own magic that Serena became aware that her words on the page were describing more than she realized. Pausing in her typing to correct a small typo, Serena glanced over her shoulder. Her mouth became dry and her eyes wide as she searched the room for signs of danger. There were none that she could see. A bed. A dresser. A small stereo. A few posters. That was all she could see. But Serena still bit her lip. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her breath was coming out in small pants.
The muse continued to stand with its arms outstretched like the wings of an angel— an angel of ideas. It was no longer even frowning in annoyance. It simply watched as the girl slowly turned back to her computer.
As Serena slowly became to type again, the muse lowered its arms. It sighed and took a step forward. It reached out towards the young author. An orb of nothingness appeared in its other hand. The muse placed its hand on the girl’s head.
Serena, sensing the touch, raised her hand and ran it over her head. The mortal’s hand passed through the muse’s hand. Feeling only hair, the girl returned to her typing. However, the words came slower. Serena frowned as she paused. What was she about to do again? How was she going to phrase that sentence again? Where was she going with this description?
The muse nodded as it removed its hand from the girl’s head. Glancing at the orb in its other hand, it shook its head. The orb sparkled as if the muse was holding a mini universe in its hands. Glancing at the girl again, it patted her head before turning to the window. Writer’s block was a pain to overcome but it would only last a second. Once the muse had hidden those ideas in Serena’s shoes, it would tell her its wonderful idea. Then Serena would be able to work on a better story with the time she had instead of working on a useless piece of literature no one (not even the author) would enjoy.
Behind it, Serena let out a frustrated groan as she stared at the screen. How could she forget an idea so easily! Her face was pulled back into a self-loathing glower as she scrolled back to the top of the page. What was she trying to do? What was the point again? She let out another groan and her hands clenched and unclenched into fists. Where did her idea go! Her arm twitched with the desire to throw the computer. Glancing at the items on her desk, she reached and grabbed her water bottle. Turning in her chair, she took aim at the middle of the bull’s-eye she had specially made for this. Pulling her arm back, she forced all her anger into the bottle. Leaning forward, she moved her arm and released the bottle.
The muse jerked as the bottle hit its arm. It turned back to hiss at the unaware girl who turned back to the computer. The muse returned its focus to its path to the window where the girl’s shoes lay on the ground. It floated a step forward before its eyes widened. The orb was no longer in its hand. On the ground were the remains of the orb and the swirling of ideas as they escaped and took form. At first, they were like smoke, cluttered together in hazy form. Then, the ideas began to separate. They began to form spheres of every colour, drifting around the room. The muse shrieked, a horrible noise like an animal being slaughtered, and shot forward reaching out to the ideas. Like a murder of crows, the ideas bolted. They became beams of light and flew in every direction. Through the window, door, roof, and floor. In a flash of light, the ideas had vanished leaving a terrified shadow and an unaware author. The author was still unaware as the muse bolted from the window and flew back towards Serena. Maybe no one would notice, it hoped as it swirled around her feet and hid under the desk.