Let’s see. Death is the reason we express fear. Fear leads to all kinds of other behaviors, most of which are not advisable. Meh. That’s better, but still not sparking off the page. Survival is the one fear that proves useful from time to time. I’m slipping. I can just feel it. My head isn’t clear this morning. Most times fear is not good for us, [better] but death is the reason we feel fear. [All right, go with it, just go!] Think about it: if we didn’t die, we would never have to experience fear.

!

…

?

Sigh…

Okay. Still not great, but not ba—What was that? I heard a thump or a bump. Phoo. One minute in, and I’m already distracted. That’s so disappointing. I got up this morning with such great hopes. I was going to nail the session. Every word a gem. Every sentence a priceless necklace. A whole kingdom for a paragraph! “Look upon ye, these mighty works…!”

Just stop it. You’re doing it again. One of the things I was always proud of about myself as a writer was that I could write amidst all kinds of distractions. I didn’t need a lonesome garret or a cabin in the woods or complete stillness in order to work. Does this mean I had finally lost the one trait that gave me a competitive advantage? Stop it. Damnit. Focus, would you? Stop doing this to yourself. Just get back to work. The work. The work. My mind drifts so much. Where the hell was I? Hmm. Let’s see…

Ah, death. That was it. The subject of death is certainly not new to the novel, but—

There it is again. Thump. My eyes dart across the room. Nothing.

—that doesn’t mean it’s been done to death. Oh, that’s good. I’m finally cooking. Whoo. Was worried there. Okay. Let’s roll.

But then again. That thump. This time the thump is followed by a voice.

“What the hell is this crap?”

The voice came on the heels of a very loud thump this time. More like a stomp. That’s it, a stomp. That’s a much better description. Crisp, but accurate. Yes, more like that. Stomp. Now, let’s get to—

“Hello? Are you deaf or something?”

I can’t see anyone – how would they have gotten in my house in the first place – nor could I tell where the voice, vaguely familiar as it was, was coming from. It was most distinctly a voice, though. Whoever it was, wherever it was, it was quickly becoming annoying. I’m talking to myself again. It was definitely keeping me from getting any work done, threatening the whole session. Confront and then, for crying the hell out loud, get back to—

“Who are you?” I asked. Then: “Or more to the point, where are you?”

“I’m standing right in front of you. Are you blind, too?”

I saw nothing, but the voice sounded quite close. And insistent.

The voice paused. I could sense it hovering, as if looking over my shoulder. Then the voice said, “What, you think you’re some Russian literary immortal or something? What is this drivel about death? What do you know about death? That it always happens to somebody else? That you don’t think you’re afraid of it? You don’t know diddly squat about death.”

The criticism sure sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place the voice. “Who ARE you?”

“I’m Brenda. Brenda James. But I’m guessing the reason you don’t recognize me is because you stink at writing description.” 

“I’m—”

“You know, for a supposed genius writer, you have the dumbest ass look on your face right now.”

“I’m processing.” Actually, I wasn’t processing. I was terrified. It suddenly hit me that I might be having a psychotic moment. Too many years, too much failure; I had finally driven myself crazy. I never in my life told anyone I was a “genius writer,” however.

“Brenda James. Age forty-two. Well, forty-seven now. You created me in your novella, Tantric Interlude. Ring a bell?

“Well, yes, but—”

“You were daydreaming instead of writing, and I’ve kinda inserted myself into the blank space that is your head at the moment.”

“So I’m not crazy?”

“Well…you’re not genius crazy, that’s for sure.”

I can feel my whole body shaking, but something else, some act of will, was pushing me to stick with it.

“I’m not babbling to myself,” I declared. “You are real, right?”

A thought suddenly occurred to me that shook me like an earthquake. I fairly shouted, “Are you my muse?”

There came a pause and then Brenda said, a tad disparagingly it seemed to me, “If that helps. Yes. All right. Consider me your muse.”

Knowing that was little help. I was actually pissed. I got up in her grill, I guess. “Some muse,” I spat. “I’ve barely written a paragraph, and you’re already making condescending remarks. How’s that supposed to inspire me? Huh? Answer me that. That Russian genius crack was uncalled for.”

I did sense a change in Brenda’s tone, more conciliating now. “You’re equating of fear and death makes no sense. People are afraid of spiders. Me, for instance. But not because I think they’d kill me necessarily.” 

“That’s true.”

“Children are afraid of a bazillion things before they ever have a clue what death is.”

“I see your point now, I suppose.”

“I just thought I needed to step in and stop you before you went off the deep end like you do.”

“Like I do?”

“Thinking you’re ready to write the Great American Novel.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” Like right now I’m thinking I shouldn’t have eaten that pizza so late last night. This conversation isn’t really happening, I know, but I can’t seem to snap out of whatever—

“You created me, that’s how. I know everything about you, and I follow you wherever you go.”

“But I finished that novella about five years ago.”

“So? You think your characters just up and die after you write ‘THE END?’ I’ve got news for you. We don’t die. That’s why, as characters, we have no fear, right? Hah! Get it?”