The Poet and the Muse

"You have the rare gift of creating art with words. Use it."
— Gwyn

Another Tuesday

About 23 years ago, my mother figured out I could write before I did. I hated reading then. School books were boring. She entered me in the town paper's writing contest anyway.

The topic was 9/11. I don't remember the prompt, but I remember the image I built in my head. It was visceral. I can still see it now. I won. They ran my picture and the piece in the paper. It felt like another Tuesday.

I let the skill settle after that. I didn't follow up on it.

The horse farm

Life took a turn. For a variety of reasons we moved to the next town over, to a nice horse farm. My father started raising Clydesdales alongside his contracting company.

Around then the stress got to him. The housing market was crashing. The bills were stacking. Inevitably the bottle became his best friend. We became the thorn in his side.

My formative years were not normal. School, come home, take care of the horses, keep my head down through the screaming matches.

I didn't do what most young adults in shit situations did: Bad decisions, alcohol and drugs. The truth was I did not need D.A.R.E or other anti-addiction support. I lived it. Saw its effects. Swore, I would not become that.

My escape came from the internet. Roleplay. Be who you want, shut the world out, live lives that weren't mine but were partly built by me.

That's the crucible that honed my writing. Not English class. Instead learning how to read and write emotion into text with strangers at 2 a.m. Largely speaking. I was none the wiser to what I was doing subconsciously.

Along came a teacher

By junior year I had mastered digital escapism. I could float between social groups at school while still keeping my outcast card. My people were the vagabonds and rogues. I had a few best friends who knew the full story. Romance was zero. I had actually given up on it. I also never really put myself out there. Felt my home situation was too messed up to bring a girl home.

Then I met her in gym class. Gwyneth. Miss Thomas, properly. She was subbing for the girls' PE teacher, which mostly meant making sure everyone left breathing.

Surrounded by every other fuckboy in the direct vicinity. Sitting there working on something with an iced latte in one hand and a clip board in the other. And me keeping my distance. My non-religious self gawking wondering “What if angels are real…?” 

It was not long before I learned who she was and what class she ran. Obviously, I took Ceramics the next year. 

Chaotic Ruin

What Gywn did not realize at the time is that by simply existing she gave me a reason to keep my chin up. To write again. Mostly poetry, because I was down bad for her and had no game at all. What I did have was the power of words.

Suddenly, my dark, gloomy and crumbling world had color. If only for the 1 hour classes every few days and the brief hallway encounters. It was enough to keep myself going. 

I was utterly and absolutely in love. It was not mutual. It couldn't be, and legally it shouldn't have been. She was a grown adult doing adult things. I was a kid nearing twenty, still in school, feeling like a failure at life. 

Everything is appalling, nothing is static. Everything. Is. Falling. Apart. — Tyler Durden (Fight Club)

Still even with distance, she became the axis my world spun. Over time the emotions turned obsessive, not in the hot dark romance "I’ll burn the world for you…" way, but in an overt, embarrassing, Icarus-flying-too-close way.

Eventually I made my feelings too clear. In turn she made it clear it would never happen. I was shattered.

At the time. I lacked the maturity and emotional intelligence to properly handle the situation. My life careened out of control. School was now just as abysmal as home, home only got worse. The arguments got longer and the time for rest got shorter. My digital escapism by now only lightly numbing the exposed nerve level pain of life.

The closest thing I can equate it to, would be when the body requires general anesthesia, but they give you anbesol instead, hand you the scalpel and say "Good luck kid."

The shadows of my home life had crept back in from the colorful periphery of the life she represented to me. There I stayed for well over a decade.

Amidst all of this, she still tried to help. Like said, an angel.

One of the last things she said before I (finally) graduated:

"Please smile again, I am worried about you…" — Gwyn

I replied with: 

"Whats the point? I don't have a reason…" — Me

I regret those words to this day.

In hindsight she was doing the right thing. Legally the school couldn't stop two consenting adults, but ethically she could, and she did.

Thirteen years later

On a whim, about thirteen years later, I sent her a friend request. I expected her to block me if I am being honest. To my absolute amazement, she accepted. More than that, she wanted to be actual friends.

At some point. I asked her if I could be candid for a moment. I finally aired out my feelings. After 13 years. I finally told her directly. My old poet self came back. To my shock she did not reject those feelings. Instead she told me it was beautiful. 

I'm older now, the world is changing. I know my place in your life and I'm not keen on the idea of losing it. I still love you. Likely always will.

Its a different kind of love, distilled to purity aged in the casks of time. Potent but smooth.

So take this for what it is. Me finally expressing myself and allowing myself honesty in a dishonest world.

Forever your friend,

-- A.

The truth serves at the honest basis of our friendship today. 

A year into talking again I pitched her the idea for what became Forever in his Veins. It came from something she said:

“I could never be a sparkly new-age vampire, I would have to be in the vein of classic horror.” - Gywn

The concept was simple then. Andrei stays after school to confess to Viv. The Sanguinari attack him to send Viv a message that she can't hide from her responsibilities. She saves him by turning him. They have to choose to stay in Victoria Falls or run.

I toyed with it every so often but mostly I sat on it for thirteen years because I needed her permission. Most authors change names and locations and write people anyway.

I couldn't do that here. It felt wrong.

I told her exactly who the characters were based on.

She wrote back:

"You should write it, it sounds like a great story."

I asked if she understood the implications.

"I do, I am also honored to be a main character in one of your works and am happy to be your muse. Just make sure you remember me when you get rich and famous!"

I wrestled with why she would say yes. Lost sleep over it. Kept asking myself "What if?" Yet I didn't dare ask her directly. I asked Jenny, my editor, what she thought. She said:

Over the course of a woman's life we gather many titles. Mother, Wife, and many more that define who we are. Men however, stay consistent. It's always Mr. Name Here.

Did you ever stop to think maybe she accepted this because you see her as a woman and simply just that? That act of seeing and immortalizing her as you saw her. Its a powerful thing.

You do realize that as long as ebooks and paper exist, you have created something absurdly special that will outlast the both of you? By publishing this. You are very publicly giving her the same vow Andrei gives Viviana. Forever and always.

That shook me. I finally understood the gravity, not just the fun of telling a story. 

Why Victoria Falls exists

I'm most of the way through the first Victoria Falls novel now. Final edits are being worked on. Pending release on July 31st. I'm thankful for the friendship that came out of all of this. I am not kidding myself. Writing her a world will not bring her to me. She is happily married. I love that for her.

Today the writing serves a few purposes:

1. It's catharsis for my own history.

2. It's a very public, soul rending act of shadow work

3. it's a container.

4. Its a cosmic vow. To forever and always be the best friend that I can be. To the woman who saved my life. Time and time again. Without even knowing she was doing it.

Victoria Falls exists as a place where I can honor what I felt then, respect the boundaries that exist now, and let those feelings flow without asking a real person to carry them in 2026.

That is why I use the gift.