My name is Robert, or crihavoc.
I have a great life. Family, home, career - check, check, check. I'm a lucky sonfagun, and no mistake.
My muse, poor girl, is suffering from a wasting disease.
Once upon a time: every SNIKT of razor sharp adamantium, every POOM from the gauntlets of Baron Karza, each diagonal carom of Daredevil's baton, every moan from the bloody length of rune-etched Stormbringer, each fish-scaled shadow at Innsmouth, every heart-busting push through the pattern of Amber, the thunderous cyan volleys from squads of fan-skirted, mercenary tanks, and the click-clock death-knell sound of a run-down pair of cowboy boots on the cracked asphalt trail of virus-wracked American damnation...
... once apon a time, my muse gorged herself silly. And, I wrote and wrote and wrote. Junior high creative writing, high school literary magazines, college literary magazines, post-matriculation rejection letters galore.
I have a great life, and no mistake. But, every project charter and spend justification and statement of work and Return on Net Assets evaluation graph and knowledge article and training document... they grow like nightmare stop-motion anemones in the marble-carved catacombs of my imagination and clamp spear-tipped extrusions on to her stringy limbs and rubbery torso and drink deep, deep, deep...
I have a plan, to save her life. I can't rescue my stringy muse yet, but I can keep her on life support. So, I join websites where stories are told. And, I force her to eat and eat and then I write! Nothing huge - short stories, vignettes, descriptive paragraphs, some world-building input - whatever she and I can craft between the 2 AM feeding and the 6 AM alarm.
I have a plan. It proceeds slowly. But, each story is another rod removed from the reactor core, another fragment of dilithium crystal added, another glyph locked in on the Stargate. I have a plan.
My name is Robert, or crihavoc.
