When the Writing Stops and the Dragons Come

Dragons, dragons, everywhere.

No, the writer thought.  That’s just my imagination.  Or, more specifically, my inner critics.  Nothing is lurking behind my monitor ready to chew through the cable in disgust or slithering beneath my desk ready to blast the CPU with its firy breath to put my dead words out of their misery. 

But if I get rid of the dragons, maybe nothing will be left.  Oh, where do I go from here?

29 responses to “When the Writing Stops and the Dragons Come

  1. Alone I Walk

    Alone I walk in wraith-like fog
    searching for the one whose might
    will open doors I cannot see
    and flood mine eyes with unseen light.

    Abandoned to obscurity,
    stumbling now in thirsting quest,
    on bended knees I persevere.
    I dare not halt; I dare not rest.

    The path I take is merciless,
    leads me to arid desert’s waste,
    usurps my soul of life’s own blood
    to underscore the need for haste.

    I scrutinize, peruse, inspect,
    and yet my search remains in vain,
    as nowhere can I find the one
    whose bounty could my soul sustain.

    From whence will come the treasured words
    to fill the mind with writing’s fare,
    if never do I fathom where
    my muse doth hide in secret lair?

  2. Ann,
    The dragons are fearful enough, but my greater fear are the Dragon Masters. They are the ones who sit in judgment and demand that my feeble attempts be destroyed.
    They are very real – or not – depending on my mood.

  3. From the corners of my vision, ruby eyes burn through my monitor. Watching. Stalking. Instinct says run. I don’t. I submit. I lie before it belly up. Vulnerable. Willing. It senses my fear.

    My fingertips ache. Pointy nails sprout from knobby knuckled extensions that once were my fingers, click across the keyboard, weapons of a soul possessed. My soul or its? It does not matter.

    Words appear on my screen. Words I have never spoken, don’t know how to speak. Thoughts I have not imagined. Letters I do not recognize. I close my eyes. The words continue, stacatto, stiletto. Tears turn to angel’s dew. Two hearts beat as one, the morph is complete.

    The screen grows brighter. A Chernobyl pixilation draws me to the source. What was solid flesh and bone, now vapor, ethereal. Of the ether. Of each other. The perfect story that only we can read. Pox the editors.

  4. This has such a daydream quality to it. Well done.

  5. galelikethewind

    Oh Western fools, you have had the Dragons wrong throughout the ages. They are not to be slain, but rather revered. Our Chinese teachers have shown us the benevolence of these beautiful creatures. We are aware of their power to reach the heavens and bring down the precious rains.
    And when they slither in behind you, and take control of your mind, if you will only trust them, they will bring the words to your pages just as they bring the life giving moisture from above to our parched Earth. Just lean back in your chair, extend the fingers to the keyboard, and let them have their way. The thoughts and feelings that emerge from your meager typing will amaze you.
    As they just did for me.

  6. Nice to see new writers here. Welcome, y’all.

  7. The fierce dragon posted at the great wooden doors slides the massive chain through the golden handles and joins the end links with a seal that will not be broken until a decision has been reached. And so the conclave of my muses begins.

    Each muse has their own idea of what the next story should be. One pushes for Haiku, another for a “Once Upon a Time” tale. Still others want prose with an edge and plenty of puns. They discuss and deliberate. No one is privy to their process, especially me.

    With a deadline looming, the conclave is impossibly frustrating. Do they even realize what time it is? Can’t they see how upset my nerves are getting, to say nothing of my intestinal tract? Must we always go through this interminable routine? Waiting, waiting and more waiting in silent anticipation. The Dragon standing guard has no hint of how long it will take this time. He simply smirks and tells me to keep my eye on the chimney.

    The chimney, that damned chimney. Hour after hour is stands mute against the sky. All eyes fixed on that tin silhouette, waiting for a smokey sign. I wait and watch and wait some more, with pen in hand, ready to pounce on the chosen topic with vim and vigor.

    I feel cheated to be locked out of the deliberations, after all, I am the one who must turn their subject into something enjoyable, or at least readable. Why would they not be, at least, interested in my ideas? Why must I wait in exile while they have all the fun discussing and voting. If I had any power, I would totally revamp the Muses’ Conclave.
    I would take away their fancy hats and capes and make them wear jeans and t-shirts. I wouldn’t let them have anything to eat but bread and water until they reached a consensus.

    And when they are finished, Just Text Me….Forget the Smoking Chimney for goodness sake, just give me a call or Tweet me. Time is of the essence…I Must make the deadline. Come on you damned Muses, I mean it’s not like your choosing the next Pope. Just give me a story to write already.

    Finally, late on the second day of voting, I see the White Smoke billowing out of the smoke stack. A story has been chosen at last. I report directly to the Dragon and he hands me a slip of paper indicating the Topic Du Jour…….John and Martha Again !

    • I loved this! So fun and fitting with the resent events. I love how John and Martha keep popping up. Well done.

    • I didn’t see that ending coming. I guess I was too busy enjoying the conclave of muses idea, and remembering that you now have to write with deadlines. Ooooo. But it turns out that John and Martha can come in handy. May they never die.

    • Fun read I enjoyed it your so good.

  8. Galelikethewind

    Such a nice tie-in to the Catholic events of the day..nice anaogy! And an enjoyable read to boot. Thx

  9. I do not like when dragons come
    I do not know where they are from.
    I do not want to know them better
    They make my words sound amateur.

    I do not like their dragon breath
    (Around my Muse a tourniquet).
    I do not like the dragon’s fire
    That acts much like a vilifier.

    I do not like to hit delete
    With dragons on the judgment-seat.
    I want them all to go away
    And not come back another day.

  10. I think we should write a new nursery rhyme book to replace “A Child’s Garden of Verses” written, I believe by Robert Lewis Stevenson (who knew!). This rhyme would certainly have a place. Perhaps we should call it “A Writer’s Garden of Verses” but keep it simple so Mother Goose would be able to visit.

  11. The Dragons Wait

    Out my window I see my dragons hiding in the trees in . They wait for me to start writing , then they creep over the grass and up the porch roof. Outside the window they smile at me or is that a smirk. I never can tell if they like or hate what I write. But in the morning I find my writing paper singed around the edges and burnt with holes. I have a feeling that tells me what I wanted to know. My dragons didn’t like what I wrote. They gave me their opinion in a very scorched way. I wonder will they keep telling me when I’m wrong. Or will they just burn it all next time.
    I’ll leave a note asking for help, spelling or grammar which ever they will do. There are at least two so they can share the duties. Tomorrow I will wake look out the window maybe only seeing black ash marks across the new blanket of snow. Or hear a burp as the leave in the night hoping my paper gave them heartburn.

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