Murdered Muse

I’m not sure who killed her.

nightmare fairy

the nightmare fairy

Yeah, this is some weird, death-fairy imagery I found in the bowels of the internet, but it illustrates a point as well as it can; my muse has been viciously, mercilessly murdered.

I can see her, staring up at me with blank and soulless eyes. Her mouth is open and there is some kind of milky fluid oozing out. The poor thing. She’s simply not responding and I know she’s dead. Someone killed her. It wasn’t me, and I have to find a way to revive her.

There’s the requisite listening of music, particularly something that stimulates neurotransmitters and the synapses that control them. There is of course, caffeine, which I am now consuming in massive quantities; I eagerly look over at the dead body of my muse to see if it’s helping but I see no movement. Let’s see, what other possible panacea can conjure up to revive this poor, pretty thing that is lying prostrate on the couch next to me?

She’s a pretty thing, my muse. All golden skin and sparkly hair, with a simple golden wrap that resembles something from a recent sci-fi fan fiction alternate universe that I wrote. Her hair is a shock of silver/blonde that makes me think of my original work and the transformation of a human being into something else entirely, when alien hosts who grant you the power over movement and conduction live in you without your even realizing it.

*Sigh. Her resurrection is penultimate in my ever-increasing list of priorities. There is nothing more important and not even my laundry list of dreams, hobbies and career goals can stand in the way!  ‘Course, if you get right down to it, without her none of those things can be attended to anyway.

Damn it.  I feel like Elliot Stabler, looking for a culprit who keeps eluding my grasp with inexhaustible skill and determination.

where are you, you heartless bastard?

where are you, you heartless bastard?

Yes… yes that resembles me now, as I gaze pensively out the slats of dusty window blinds, promising retribution with every little quirk at the corner of my mouth.  Minus the five-head – apologies Chris Meloni.

Meanwhile, manuscript(s) lay open on my desktop with no chance for the salvation of substance and form:  just neglected and pitiful files full of Microsoft Word’s off-white space.

There is, of course, that ever-present question. Who killed you, my precious muse? I will find him – or her, mind you. And I will destroy this person with all the pitiless violence of Sektor from Mortal Kombat.

Low Punch. Run. Run. Block.





Oh… oh, yes.  My caffeinated behind is squeeing with pre-teen delight, you sanguine-armored assassin, you.



(Elliot Stabler/Law & Order Image (C) NBC Studios)
(Sektor/Mortal Kombat 3 (C) Property of Midway Games, 1995)


Is there anyone out there, and why does it matter?

People ask me why I write science fiction.  No, really they do.

Science fiction is the fabric of human imagination; I am absolutely convinced of this fact.  I’m not convinced of it because I feel it’s better than any other type of fiction, or because it somehow trumps the conventional tropes of modern literature or that people who write other types of fiction are somehow less creative than sci-fi.

The reason I’m convinced that it is the fabric of human imagination is because, although it is not better to read or superior to other genres, I find that sci-fi (and fantasy) are the more difficult genres to create as an author.

Think about this; when an author creates sci-fi, or fantasy, there has to be enough reality intertwined in the fabric of your non-reality for it to be sympathetic to your audience.  The audience needs to relate to your non-reality enough so that for them, it’s interesting and dynamic and they WANT to be a part of it.

Science fiction is, at its heart, the exploratory spirit of humanity.  We want to know what’s out there…  We want to know if there are other planets that sustain life, and we want to know how many of them are like us, or sort of like us, or peaceful, hostile, ugly, beautiful–!  I could go on.  Not only that, but as a writer who has been telling stories since the 7th grade and before I knew really what aliens were, this genre creates an entire platform on which to create something never created before, even if it doesn’t involve extra-terrestrials.  We build on the ideas of others and use the inspiration of past science fiction authors as a basis for the story we want to tell; the possibilities become so endless that, for a story-teller it is as vast as the universe itself.  Infinite.

Science Fiction matters because, as a single people, we want to discover.  We need to discover, and that is the single most important element in human society since the beginning of time.

I hope I can explore that sentiment in this blog.  I want to explore the story I’m currently working on, as well as works by other amazing authors of science fiction.

Join me~~~!  ^_^