Dandy Stranger

Desert

This thing that I tap away at is not a piece of writing, rather a verbal vomit. I hate it when there’s nothing, so I write about the nothingness. When I bury myself in a well-written book, then and only then, do I feel the need to write. My muse stops being my own, and my narratives begin to reflect that which I read.

There is hope of course, that I will become infamous for writing books and books about the death of my muse. That I shall appear on cable TV recounting the bloody crime scene, “Some names have been changed.” Maybe I pushed her off the train that day. That is for me to know and for you to find out.

Mine is a pattern – Buzz, write, stop, dump. Got that, rinse and repeat as desired. My muse comes knocking, being supportive and sweet. We embark on an exciting trip together and words pour out of us… then we come up against dry land, all ashore who’s going ashore. There we are, stranded on a desert island. She skips off to collect shells, in which she can hear the sea but I cannot. That magic is lost on me because I’m to busy trying to flag down a damn boat.