While I’m holding life or death in my own hands.
March 25, 2015
THE MUSE WAS WAITING for me when I awoke this morning.
The rain was gone.
Green leaves were beginning to climb their way onto the limbs of my crooked old oak out back.
The birds were fluttering among the silverberry shrubs.
That’s where they go when it rains.
The Muse had taken a scoop of bird seed from the feeder and sprinkled it on the ground.
He was whistling.
It wasn’t Dixie.
“You’re late,” he said.
“It’s still dark.”
“Like your novels,” he said.
I couldn’t deny it.
“You working on your latest novel?”
“How’s it coming?”
“I’m about a hundred pages from ending it all.”
“You know what the ending will be?”
The Muse jerked his head around.
“I’m surprised,” he said.
“So am I.”
“I thought you wrote the ending first.”
A cardinal had come to the feeder.
“I wrote the ending first this time, too,” I said.
“So you do know what’s gonna happen.”
I sat down on the patio and watched the first crease of daylight separate itself from the earth.
“I may change my mind.”
“Why?” the Muse asked.
“I have two choices,” I said. “The main character can live.”
“Or he can die.”
“Which do you prefer?” he asked.
“So what’s the problem?”
“Readers like happy endings,” I said.
“No,” the Muse answered. “Readers like honest endings.”
I watched the day break.
It didn’t make a sound.
“I guess Sidney Sheldon was right,” the Muse said.
“What did Sidney say?”
“A blank piece of paper is God’s way of telling us how hard is to be God.”
He walked away.
I sat in the dim light of dawn and waited to see if I could hear the sound of a gunshot in my mind.
The Muse was whistling.
The birds were singing.
Maybe down deep inside I wanted a happy ending, too.
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