Be careful what you wish for...

A friend on a forum I frequent casually wished that she could just sit down and write.

I slid into "evil genie" mode, and responded:

Granted.
The muse grabs you and won't let go. You write until your fingers bleed... until the words writhe upon the paper... until the ink stains your skin into tattooes... until the paper is shredded into crumbled dust... until the pen is worn to a stub... and still you write. 

The words grip at your thoughts and will not let go, breeding and multiplying in non-Euclidian patterns, and the muse still holds you in her thrall. 

When you try to rise and escape, the stories rise within your soul, compelling you to express them and give them life. And still you write. The lamp gutters... the sun sank below the ground a thousand years ago... your body demands sleep... and still you write.

And the stories keep flowing through you. They are stronger than you. A compulsion you cannot resist. And the stories continue to grow and fester and engulf you. 

And you will never, never, never stop writing, even when your fingers are bone and the wind that hisses around you whispers that it is the end of the world...


Sometimes I scare myself.

And the really frightening thing is that I wish I could spend tomorrow writing...