Let’s have some fun with our morning coffee, shall we? This week’s coffee talk isn’t just for the writers out there, or the readers and family and friends, but for anyone creative. If you’ve got an artistic bone in your body, you’ve got a muse of sorts. Whether you paint or doodle, sing or play an instrument, dabble with words or… whatever… you get your inspiration somewhere. There were nine Greek muses, Calliope being the most famous, Melpomene being the most logical for horror writers. And while we all talk about our muses, the Greek versions are just myth, right? So…

If they’re myth, where does your inspiration come from? Not “where do you get your ideas” [because if I ever, and I do mean EVER, ask that question—just shoot me!], but what/who is your muse? The Greek muses have been depicted and designed. We know what they’re supposed to look like. What about yours?

Does your muse have a sex or name? Do it talk to you, whisper, yell? If we’re going to give our inspiration a personality, let’s give them a full bio! Give me a run down of your personal muse… whatever you already know/think, plus whatever fun stuff you can come up with to help flesh them out more, so they help you more: height, weight, name, age, twitches, habits and of course, sins…

Mine is a tall, skinny boy that likes to squat in gargoyle fashion just out of eye-shot, about 5 o’clock on the visual clock. I can hear him whispering just fine, but to catch a glimpse I must turn to the right a touch, and even then it’s only peripherally. He’s got dark hair and darker eyes—though sometimes his eyes sparkle as if there are colors in there other than black. He’s got a wicked grin and bloody knuckles. He wears beat up jeans and an old t-shirt, but no socks or shoes. He could use a haircut, as it hangs in his face and almost reminds me of a bad cast member from Underworld. He drinks too much whiskey and enjoys talking in riddles and rhyme.

He holds two books in his hands. One is a thick tome of every bit of writing advice I’ve ever read or been told. He often uses it to hit me over the head like a Catholic School teacher with a yard stick and PMS. The other is the tattered diary of my life—photos sticking out, faded ribbon marking some passage, and loose pages poking free at odd angles to show scribbling from a multitude of colored pens and broken pencils. He never hits me with that, but he does enjoy squeezing it until blood drips from its broken spine.

I’m pretty sure he once got away with murder…

And he refuses to tell me his name—I have to wonder if it isn’t something akin to Rumpelstiltskin!

So? What about yours?

0 Responses to Inspiration

  • Monrozombi says:

    See this, blog is the exact reason why I need to keep my distance. Who knows, I could be sitting at your kitchen table, enjoying a cup of Kelli’s coffee and bam outta know where, I get clubbed on the head by this muse and dragged into the cellar where I will awaken, shackled to the wall, gagged and ready to become its bitch…..

  • Kelli says:

    no no, silly. the only one he makes his bitch is me… anything else that may happen to you is all my fault =)

  • Bob Ford says:

    My Muse?

    Oh yes. I know what she looks like. She’s Asian and stunningly beautiful with almond eyes the color of jade in sunlight. Her onyx hair is done up behind her in chopsticks the color of her eyes, thin strands falling at her left temple and along the nape of her neck. Her robes change with the seasons but always carry natural earth tones and iconic patterns and everything begins to blur from her knees down… as if her feet never touch the ground itself.

    On the surface she comes off as cultured and upscale and has a coy, girlish smile, but there’s wicked glances you’ll only catch at your peripheral vision. She smells of girls I’ve been in love with and tears shed from dreams.

    She’s refined as an old world courtesan and comes off at times as arrogant and condescending, but she makes up for it with the sweetest of whispers… telling me about characters I should pay attention to or people I should watch.

    She’s my first love, my last heartbreak, the sweetest kiss I ever had, and the worst betrayal I’ve ever experienced, all in the same personality. Her palette of traits is wide and varied and she can play me like a violin with a flutter of her eyes and a pout of her lips.

    There’s almost nothing I wouldn’t do for her and the worst thing about it is she knows it and doesn’t care. She abuses me at will without regard or hesitation for any repercussions it’ll cause me in the future.

    At her best she whispers to me in an almost lyrical way, guiding my thoughts and hands to put it all down. At her worst she’s a beautiful spoiled girl who always gets her way and knows it.

    I’d better pay attention to her or else… or else she changes into an Hannya, full of rage and jealousy and all manner of piss and vinegar directed at me. Her face is blood red and her black hair is disheveled and tangled in wet drapes around her face. Grooved horns protrude from her head and her eyes glow golden. She no longer wants to whisper to me, instead issuing low, hoarse screams like a mountain cat.

    She frightens me when she gets like that and I’ve only dreamt of her once like that but it was enough that I don’t wish to repeat it any time soon.

    I’ve felt her wrath before when she left me for six months. She turned her back on me and nothing I could do would coax her to talk to me. No amount of promises would convince her to show herself to me again and at the time, it was breaking my heart like nothing else I’d ever been through.

    And then one day, like a child done throwing a tantrum, she was back, telling me sweet nothings once again as if nothing had ever happened.

    She’s amazing and she knows it. I love her and she knows it. She’s got me dead in her sights and she knows it. Not a damn thing I can do about it.

    But I’m certain I’d not have it any other way.

Thoughts? Tell me what you think...

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