Creative Series IV: Meeting Your Muse

Today is the day that we begin to create a book, short story, poem or article.


Today is the day that we meet our muse. What I will be doing from this point to the end of the series, is creating a storyline and finished product online. For the next few parts in our series, we will literally create a story from this blog, using all of the tools that we have covered.

First is our idea.

What will we write about? I am going to stick with a work of fiction. To start, I want to find something to write about.

I am R.M. Almeida.

Welcome to Meeting Your Muse. Our series begins and ends with the creation of a story. Let us begin with a rough idea for our story.


Any external event in our lives, can influence our thoughts, our actions or our ideas. As writers, we can use external events to bring out those small introductions to create a story.


A story can be born at the start of a hailstorm, perhaps a harbinger of events to unfold.


What if your story starts in a location that is as innocent as a parking lot?


Your story could be a park or a beautiful lake, surrounded by expensive homes, nestled in palm trees that bake in the hot sun. It can be a dilapidated shack in the slum.


So, our story can start anywhere, anyplace or at any time. What we do know, is that we are beginning to meet our muse…that part of us that is able to become detached from the real world around us…a part of us that can begin to create a world not of this reality, with its own standards, rules and laws. A world that only exists within the very fabric of our imagination.

We are in our zone…we are ready to begin writing.

Our First Exercise

I have found a place close to home to begin writing my story.

It was a dream.

When I saw my dream home, I salivated as I looked at the huge bay windows that overlooked the swimming pool, garden and lake that sat next to the sprawling structure. A small boat tied to a landing that led to the house, was camped like a tourist on the blue-green lake that shimmered in the bright Nevada sun. Schools of fish lavished themselves on occasional insects that came too close to the surface of the water, their insect lives snuffed out as if they were candles being pinched by a butler as a fish jumped out of the water to engorge themselves.

It was a home that I could live in for the rest of my natural days, my own personal getaway where I could relax on a sofa, so overstuffed that I sank into its soft, velour pillows even before I sat down. A megalithic television screen offered me the delights of technology that only the filthy rich could envision. Each room was more inviting than the most passionate lover I could imagine, a nirvana holiday enervated from the most sensual Feng Shui dreams from a magazine in house design.

Who knew that such a gorgeous home could be one so putrid with the smell of death?

Next in our series: Populating our Landscape with Characters

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