I have never been an ambitious person. Now my Muse has introduced me to ambition for the first time, and I’m determined to become a published writer.
It feels strange: like a divine discontent, or like being Macbeth. Although I have so much to be grateful for in life I want more, and I’ve been brought up to think that makes me a naughty, whiny child; yet somehow in this context it doesn’t mean that- it means some kind of restless poet soul.
Ambition belongs to the strident orange ray which also rules over physical vitality and sporting prowess. It’s something that has never been part of me: I’m always getting tired, and in my wardrobe there are no orange clothes.
In some ways a taste of the orange feels wrong, like an obsession. Yet it also feels very right as I wonder why I didn’t have the drive and focus years ago. Some artists always have it while others have to be prompted, often by a friend or lover, or as in my case by a Muse.
I’ve never been confident either. Every time I browse the works of other fantasy writers I always find at least one who I consider better than myself. I have to remind myself that it’s all taste: skill and experience as well, but largely audience taste.
I write in a very simple style- in fact my Muse sounds more experienced in worldly life than me when she writes, and she isn’t even incarnate. But that is my own voice and my own way, which she has encouraged me to find.
There was a time once in my life when I had to live very simply for a while to sort out some problems. It wasn’t dire poverty, just rather romantic things like wearing an old evening dress as a nightdress, and I loved it! It felt pure, and fun, and it was the complete opposite of the orange ray of ambition. I’ll enjoy the ‘tangerine dream’ of myself and my Muse being the next big thing- but at least with my temperament I won’t sink into despair if it doesn’t happen.
Don’t let go of the string on a kite. The string on a kite is an astral cord. Never paint faces on the sides of a kite, and particularly beware of making the kite into the shape of something recognizable, like a dog.
These are not my words: these were the strange instructions on my Chinese kite and they were under a flap in the bottom of the box where you would not immediately look for them.
It would be strange indeed to read these instructions with your new kite when you took it out of the box to assemble it. But how much stranger it is to read them five years after buying the kite, when you have painted your face on one side of the kite, you have given it to your toddler to play with, who constantly used to let go of the string, and you have had a clown at a children’s party twist the kite in with a sausage dog balloon.
My kite is flying today at the annual kite display, alongside many others that have been brought here specially and are in the shape of butterflies, bats, dogs and cats and Disney characters. My bad luck may have nothing to do with the kite. It has just won a prize because it is still conflated with the sausage dog balloon, and this is seen as original. Bubbles burst around my face, and my skin hurts. It feels like acid.
Another one channeled from Ino the Dark Muse. Remember you can read all 14 in her flash fiction collection here:
Here’s another 100-word story:
As I did up the button on my cardigan I kept my finger on it and followed it, and threaded my whole body through the buttonhole.
The fabric pinched my head as it jerked through to the cardigan’s lining, where the long row of buttons formed a control panel leading straight into cyberspace. By pushing the first button I could go to Google, the second led to YouTube, and so on with all the others which took me to different sites.
I’ve seen enough now, so I’m coming out through the speaker on your computer.