The Midnight Writer

It was a not dark and not stormy night as she sat on the high-back chair typing rhythmically on the keyboard of her laptop, the muses flowing in and out as scene after scene flitting across her mind. There was no stopping the muses tonight, she found. They were everywhere, taking her from one place to another as though she were living through their actions. Who knows, perhaps she was.

She had set herself up to write the perfect story, one that included every muse she had ever mustered through her tenure as a writer. This, of course, was to be the story to end all stories. Well, she wouldn’t go so far as to say that, but it was the epitome of all that she wrote to appease the criticism she receives from a certain friend. That friend, though a writer herself, was ruthless in her criticizing; always egging her to become more than what she currently was. Of course she knew that her friend meant well, but…the constant editing notes were killing her. She’d prove herself tonight, that she was sure.

The moonlight streamed in through the window behind her, filtered through the blinds that she had neglected to close, having been so engrossed in capturing the actions of her muses as they hurried through the movie in her mind. These muses covered everything, from past to present to future; the ancient story of the Musketeers mixing themselves into the future of space travel with the present being a stopping ground in between.

Hurriedly she typed away the hours, having begun early the evening before. Nothing stopped her; not the pangs of hunger, the weariness of lack of sleep, nor the calling of her beloved pets. It was nearly dawn and still the story wound itself in her vision. She found that she could barely keep the pace with her typing, but she needed to get it all out before it became nothing more than a dream.

Her favorite musings until recently were the Musketeers, the fandom of Young Blades, carrying her to a new level of intrigue and romance. Once mastered, she moved on to the Harry Potter series, bringing in her own character and a romance that even the original creator of the series never imagined. This proved to be quite a hit with her group of writing buddies. But she found she couldn’t stop there; she aimed for the future, to a frontier many have gone but fewer had ever written about. But all this, she found, was a stepping stone for much bigger and better things. One day she would prove to all that her writing was worthy of publication; all she needed was the experience to create a world all her own. Soon that would happen. Soon she would become a published writer.

The night carried on. The tinkling of the keys as her fingers pressed this letter and that was ignored. Her story was driving itself madly through her. Where in all this would her newest muses come in? There was no way she could possibly keep Jack, Will, and Elizabeth out of the action and her mind rapidly changed its destination to the water. Who would get Elizabeth in the end? Perhaps Ramon, the debonair Spanish Musketeer. But would that upset her critic? She found that she didn’t care if it did. Touché to the one that managed to tear apart everything she’d ever written. It would serve her right!

Forcing her mind back to the story at hand she carried on as the beginnings of dawn appeared outside. It didn’t matter to her what the day had in store; she would not stop until the muses had burnt themselves out. The voyage on the water was ending itself and dry land could be seen on the distant horizon. There waiting were even more muses. Music played in the background; she’d started the cd player just before sitting down and now wondered how many times each had played through, never hearing a single note. The voices were too strong.

Suddenly, without warning, the voices began to quiet. The roar of the water, horses, and space craft drifted further away as though she were leaving them all behind. In actuality she was. Mysteries were finally solved. Romances were blossoming and leaving on their own accord. Her story was coming to a close. How could this have happened? How could they just leave her, a boring ending to such majesty of words? But none the less, they had all told their tales; their lives were now on paper and their purpose gone. Off they would go into the unknown again to wait, to wait for the next inspiration that captured this midnight writer. And she would be there once again, ready, willing and able to ignore reality and record what no other could.