Write to me of the girl, Muse, the girl of breathing words.

Time and time again the letters pour onto the page, spilling secrets like oil into a river.

Many books her eyes have passed over, gathering ideas.

Many days she suffered the hideous empty land of the empty mind, that dreadful, barren place that knows no mercy,

Searching,

But not finding

Inspiration.

Muse, whisper this to me, how the ideas clog the back of her mind,

How her nimble fingers fly over the keys

Creating a world for which to escape reality.

Where words live and breathe and dance like fire.

The same fingers that play out a melody.

This is not a race to the top

To get the words down,

No.

It is a race to find oneself through the lives of the characters she creates.

In the dead of night, while the world is asleep, she grasps the pen, the ink rolls out onto the paper.

Pages, three,

Four,

Five.

As she creates her masterpiece, thinking where everyone else dreams.

Read her story to me, Muse, as she rambles on and on.

Start from the beginning, follow her as the story gets longer and longer with each day.

Start from the middle, read each word as she writes it, breathe down her neck as if trying to keep her warm.

Start from the end, read backwards,

but not too far, as the story isn't finished yet.