The blank page mocks taunts with the ticking clock. 3 Days and I’ve got nothing, no lurid explanation will pacify my editor. I need air, inspiration, something illegal — anything to pull me from this slump. Still dark, soft rain soaks my coat as I reach the eerie quiet of the stone castle.
“I can help.” The voice drifts from atop the fog-shrouded stairs. Where caution should be, interest peaks, intoxicating allure pulls me up the stone steps.
“What help do I need?” I dare.
“With that urge.” The reply’s like tempered chocolate.
“I’ve got many.”
“I know.” It beckons me closer. I dissolve into the fog, arms coil around me, lips claiming mine.
Leaving hours later, I’m caught in a reverie of dazzling ideas; while getting them on paper, fatigue overwhelms me. Is this passion’s price, the cost of inspiration?
Back and back, I go: back against the wet stairs, back into fog, the heated hands, my crucible filled with ideas. Four novels in so many years. My syntax delights, my ageing alarms.
Engrossed by the muse in the mist, never even learning a name, I trade creativity for longevity; a fatal price I’d pay again… and again.
