On the Matter of My Muse, or Writing is Promiscuous

[scribblemyname]

The inside of my head is screaming with stories.

Shutting them up to quiet the floodgates, to open the pen to one and only one, shuts out all the voices, and I whimper as I wonder how many will flood back in if I open the door just the tiniest crack.

I open it. The first one in gets written. It may not be yours. It may not be due. It may not be the story I wanted to write. But it’s the one I can take in without greeting all its brothers and sisters and relatives with open arms.