Hercules took all the muses away

 I remember the first story I ever wrote. I was in second year high school, it was a Journalism    class assignment, and it got published in the school paper.

It was also comprised of 15 pages of intermediate paper; so you can just imagine how it was when it came to public eye.

And oh, it was about vampires.

Oh yes. For what kind of writer would I be if I didn’t at least ponder about them?

I have every reasonable excuse that can only be traced to one source: Buffy Summers.

It was the time when Buffy the Vampire Slayer ruled television; and I –victim of the glory that is cable networks – did not remain unscathed. And, as it was the year wherein I first discovered internet and – by extension – fanfictions, nothing could have dissuaded me from my enthusiasm over Buffy and the Scooby Gang. Those, plus my Buffy the Vampire Slayers: The Origin comic books my father bought me (I still have them by the way), served as my research and inspiration to write my assignment turned second published write-up.

It had the particularly unimaginative, cheap title of ‘Vampire City’.

Miserly title aside, I took pride in what I wrote.

It had the whole vampire theories – the invitation before entering the house, the garlic, the wooden stake at the heart, the daytime sleep, the soulless evil of the damned, and the invulnerability against the cross. It started with the main protagonist, a girl, moving into a creepy town surrounded by local stories of the supernatural – much like local folklore of aswangs in provinces. And it ended with her and her remaining friends trapped inside a church with numerous Undeads forcing their way in. It was the aftermath of a schoolparty horribly gone wrong. Yes, in my story vampires can enter churches; I took a twisted pleasure in having it as such to shock my run-by-a-religious-organization-highschool. I sincerely thought I was going to be reprimanded by the principal.

Over the years my ‘titling’ ability drastically improved. No longer were my titles cheap and unimaginative and lackluster.

I realized this when I had to do a character sketch for an English class. I was fixated by the anime Rurouni Kenshin (Samurai X) during that time – so much that I decided to have one of the characters in the anime as my subject: Seta Sojiro (Shishio’s right-hand man, the perpetually smiling kid). I entitled it ‘Beautiful Alone’. It was among the most beautiful works I’ve ever written. (Unfortunately I lost my copy.)

As proof that it was no one-time thing, I had a particular 10-paged autobiography I silently entitled ‘My First Attempt at Suicide’. Mind you, it was a project at my Psychology 150: Personality class. (And I got a flat 1 on said autobiography.) And as further proof to make it a perfect three, I wrote an Alias fanfiction I entitled ‘Snapshots’. (Because a long time ago I was in love with Alias and the whole Sydney Bristow-Michael Vaughn affair.)

Wait.

Stop.

I’m not writing this to list some of my ‘written works’. God no. I’m writing this because I realized one thing now.

The works I love the most were written in a state of depression or anger or loneliness or isolation. That aside, they were written with such inspiration and such passion that the incentive to write them bordered between fandom and obsession. And alas, I have lost that. Such passion has left me.

I am now without an inspiration.

Yes, I am writing this to wail and bemoan the loss of my muse. It is an awareness that had left me befuddled for days.

I am stuck in writer’s block.

And I hate it.

But I’m getting over it.

I am getting my mojo back.

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