My Muse is a fickle creature. I can sit in front of my keyboard for hours and she won’t give me one word to type. But when I decide to walk my dogs she’ll wait until we’re blocks away from home and start whispering in my ear.

“What if the character doesn’t know who he is?”

“Yes?” I whisper, afraid I might frighten the Muse away.

“Well, then he could be completely brainwashed against his own destiny. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“But then how does he complete his destiny?” I ask, hoping the Muse already has it all sorted out.

Stubborn silence.

That’s how it usually goes, and then I spend the next couple days trying to figure it out, following the possibilities down dead-end paths that don’t fit the theme of my story, until one day, far from the nearest keyboard, my Muse whispers; “Show him his life has been a lie.”

“Well, duh.” I think to myself, and decide I really need to start carrying a pen and notebook with me everywhere I go.

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