Last night I was inspired to speak in the ways that I know how.

I was reminded what it means to be a writer. I was reminded of who we actually are. I was reminded that we have no fear where a blank page is concerned. Give me scraps, canvas, bar napkins…I will write on your wall if I’m left with enough chalk.

We are driven by our passion—an innate need to tell a story. To touch someone, move them, help them….drive them. I see in words, in punctuation, in quotes. I see in script and type. I see stories everywhere I look. My eyes widen like a child’s and it was during my childhood that I first wanted a muse.

I don’t want to kill the mood, but I was watching Xanudu.

I even dream in stories—bright beautiful full stories. Last night, I was reminded of this one…it woke me out of a deep slumber one night. I immediately grabbed the nearest tool, which happened to be eyeliner. It is a description of a lifetime with a man—possibly mine.

My dream was set in a small town in Italy in the 1700’s. He was a painter, I was his muse.

It seemed easier then, you know, hidden away in the hills of our place.
“You are my muse”, he said.
“You are my heart,” she whispered.
Hours and hours, days upon days buried under pain and the promise of betrayal, I watched him work. Longing for our worlds to intertwine beyond the canvas and the sunset.
I do not remember the past clearly but as I woke this morning my eyes opened for the first time. Antiqued shards of pain wiped away as I thought of you…again.
“You empower me”, he said.
“You heal me”, she whispered.
To no longer battle time….It is infinite freedom. It is infinite spirit. Mirrors form a true reflection and I catch a glimpse of hope. Your hand brushes against mine and I remember. Your gaze locks mine and I feel. Your lips touch my mouth and I realize…you have always been my beloved.

I had challenges artistically when I was younger. My mother and father were not a fan of my artistic endeavors. It wasn’t because they did not support me—they are old school. They believe in tangible skills. Degrees. Paper proof. They could not understand the need to create.

I went down every avenue; modeling, acting, fashion, painting, everything was a new adventure. I used to wrap myself in bath sheets when I was seven and parade my latest design for my mom. I couldn’t stop it, even then. It was a drive I was unable to control.

They encouraged me, but I knew they wanted  more….perhaps an interest in math? That remained their hope for me, until I wrote. I can still remember my mom telling me that she cried every time I gave her a birthday card or anniversary card.

She would always say You write so beautifully. You should write for Hallmark. It still makes me smile.

We, as artists, know the power of words, and that power is, ironically, the only thing that ever slows me down. It scares me ever so slightly. That and perhaps my muse takes too many smoke breaks. My muse is not that Grecian chick wearing a translucent robe on roller skates. They are my fellow writers, my soul mates, the man who cracks my armor. The ones who will listen to me vent and laugh, cry. They watch me fear and love unconditionally.

Why  does this power frighten me? It should be cherished. Shouldn’t it?

It is because words can be misconstrued and twisted into ugly horrible things. They can cause the kind of pain that will cut your heart open. I cannot think and write at the same time. I must relinquish my thoughts and just keep going. If I say this will I hurt you? If I say this will you mistake it for opening my soul. Will my true self frighten you?

Every word I type is vulnerable—everything I write is a piece of me.

Perhaps I’ve offended some with my work. Part of me hopes I have—not in a hurtful or cruel manner, but I like a good bout of controversy every now and again.

I’m a writer. I am a creator. Some days I create pure shit. This is all a process. If you are an artist, do you have all of your muses hidden in your closets or in a roller rink somewhere? If you do, please let them out (if only for coffee and some light conversation).

I do know this: As artists, the only wrong we can do is to judge ourselves. We all have our uniqueness, qualities unlike any other. We all share a passion.

So pick up your tool, your paint brush, pen, camera, your guitar with the missing e string.

Get your hands dirty.

Resist nothing.

Love each other, support one another and find your muse in everyone.

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Ed: Bryonie Wise