Happy Monday! We have Tracy L. Ranson here! And we’re talking about muses! Get your gear on and read this!
How to capture your muse and strap their butts to the chair to get them to cooperate
Muses. Love them or hate them. Sometimes it’s a bit of both now and then. If your muse is like mine, you’d better get a HUGE butterfly net….LOL….my muse will dance around me singing “I’m not going to cooperate with you today….LALALALALALA” which in turn gives me a horrible case of writer’s block. We all know that sucks right? Well, grab the duct tape folks cuz here it goes (I’m from KY and we sorta talk funny but I’ll promise you we are all housebroken and have been known to wear shoes on occasion.)
When my muse starts acting as goofy as the muse can be, I start asking questions like:
Where does my story start? The muse probably won’t cooperate at this point but you keep going.
What does my heroine look like?
Where’s she from?
After a while, the muse will all of a sudden start to wear down after being bombarded with questions of that nature because the muse will get tired of answering them. By this time, the muse’s butt is plunked in a theoretical chair then you’ve got the muse! You must work quickly with the duct tape (handyman’s secret weapon and my dad’s personal favorite) and tape that muse down!
LOL…all in all, it’s really simple to get your muse going. If you have someone with you, it’s great to bounce questions off of them too. I do it all the time with my husband and sometimes he gives me plots I would have never even thought of. He’s extremely smart and intelligent (almost too damned smart for his own good!) and has a lot of great ideas.
Working with others sometimes can help tie the old muse down where they belong and get those writing juices flowing!
Tracy
Excerpt:
“Well, well, well. What do we ‘ave ‘ere?”
India opened her eyes and blinked hard. Several men, dressed in ragged sailors’ clothing, stood before her with legs splayed and arms crossed over their chests. She swallowed the large lump in her throat and drew her knees into her own chest. She locked her arms protectively around her legs. The men looked and smelled awful, like a boatload of rotting fish. They must have just returned back from a voyage. Wrinkling her nose, she listened for the sound of loud thunder. There was nothing. By God’s mercy, the storm had passed.
Lifting her gaze to the lead man, she asked in an icy, controlled tone, “Who are you?”
“Don’t matter. Ye are trespassing.”
India inched her fingers toward her damp gown and any hope of coverage. “No one owns Craogh Falloch so I beg to differ with you.”
The stringy haired man in the middle shook his head and narrowed his eyes. A menacing scowl eradicated any trace of kindness. “Me captain owns this here lot. Ye have no right to be here.”
With that, she grabbed her dress and protectively held the garment front of her. “Who is your captain?”
He bent from his thick waist and grabbed her arm, jerking her to her feet. Her gown drifted to a blackened heap on the cavern floor. So much for protection or modesty. “Oh, you will find out from him who he is, gel.”
Fear overtook her, but she held all her emotions at bay. Though they seemed like pirates, they hadn’t made a move to hurt her — or worse.
The man clamped a hand on her arm and pushed her to the rock laden path in front of him. She walked gingerly to avoid any more rips in her already injured soles.
Her captor laid a warm meaty hand on her shoulder and directed her to a smoother path. Warm sand helped her feet a little but not enough to keep her mind from fearing their mysterious captain. What would he do with her? Maybe with a bit of persuasion once he knew her identity, he would let her go.
Bright sunlight replaced the raging storm from the night before, adding to the heat of the day. She’d been at least thankful for that.
India’s captors guided her around a wide, yawning bend leading toward a small alcove of Craogh Falloch. India stopped, and her jaw dropped. A large brigantine with two masts bobbed in the choppy blue waters of the nearly hidden cove. Canvas sails on the mast flapped in the breeze as men continued to lash them down on the yardarms. Swivel guns decorated the deck as if ready for unexpected battle.
She glanced at the colors to determine who owned the ship. Her blood turned to ice, and her heart nearly stopped mid-beat. On a flag flying high above the mast, a neatly constructed black falcon sat with wings outstretched against a white background, its talons flared almost as if the bird were ready to strike. Her gaze flicked to the bow. Falcon’s Lair announced itself on the weathered wood, time and wind having erased its brightness. Fear formed a knot in her belly. No, it could not be! Somehow, she’d fallen into the hands of her father’s enemy, the Black Falcon.
“Come along, gel,” the man said, and he rudely pushed her forward. She nearly lost her foot and grasped onto a rock for support.
India jerked her arm out of his grip and managed to steady herself. “Don’t push me!” She’d thought of giving him the what-for, but in her current situation, she didn’t have a chance.
“Then ye best get moving!”
She stalked down the rolling green hill toward the makeshift wharf nestled deep in the secretive part of the cove. Rivulets of sweat glistened on the various hued men’s naked backs as they stacked cannonballs next to the barrels possibly holding gunpowder, the metal showing the dullness of an old pence in the morning. Their deft movements bespoke of years at sea and plenty of practice.
India held her head high amid the stares of the sailors as she moved past them. She ignored their inquisitive looks for she wanted to meet this infamous ‘Black Falcon’ and tell him exactly what he could do with his kidnap of her.
*****
Captain Rafe Blackthorne watched his men amble down the hill with a strange, resistant figure in front of them. It was a woman from the way her thin gown flapped in the breeze, and from her gait, she did not seem a bit happy about coming aboard his ship. Where did they find her? He growled low. No matter. He would frighten her into never coming back to this area again. The less people knew about his hiding place, the better.
He leaned against the mizzen mast with his thumbs casually jammed into the worn waistband of his threadbare breeches, idly watching her approach. Her presence could prove interesting. He hadn’t had a woman aboard his ship for nearly a year, at least not since Jamaica. That particular female had been a whore who had stowed away in the hopes of heading toward a new life elsewhere. What she discovered later had been his price for her freedom. He had enjoyed himself quite thoroughly with his payment but had grown bored with her quickly so he dropped her off at the next port.
The new woman possessed hair as black as night, tumbling down her slender shoulders in soft, cascading waves. Her lithe form possessed high breasts, indicative of youth. He frowned. He would have guessed her to be much older from her stride.
She stormed up his gangplank, her fists clenched at her sides. His men halted their work and cast their gaze to this newcomer, a mixture of curiosity and lust written on their features. Grayson and the others lumbered up behind her. “Get moving, gel! Me captain is waiting!”
Rafe watched the expression on her face deepen. Her cheeks burned a deep crimson, a color he found extremely attractive. A woman normally did not sport such a hue until she left a man’s bed.
“Where is this captain you speak of?”
He smirked. She possessed a fiery nature, one he could see himself enjoying.
She threw a look over her slender pale shoulder and noticed him. Her eyes narrowed. “What exactly are you looking at?”
“You.”
“I wish you to refrain from looking at me. I doubt whether your captain would be pleased at this.”
Rafe couldn’t help but smile. He stood and towered over her, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh, he would be.” He reacted instantly beneath his breeches to the whiskey-colored depths of her eyes, a mixture of innocence with a hint of deep secrecy. A slash of black lashes, a shade darker than her hair, framed those pretty orbs.
An inky eyebrow rose. “How so?” Her plump lips, rosy and red, emanated a silent enticement to be kissed. Perhaps he would have to accept her invitation and find out what else lay beneath her perfect exterior.
“Because I’m the captain.”
Her shoulders fell back and her well-formed jaw dropped. “Yo — you’re the captain? You’re the Black Falcon?”
His gaze traveled down, and he noticed the way her lovely breasts rose and fell in a quick rhythm, almost as if she could not control herself around him. He liked that — sometimes. “Why do you find that so shocking?”
“No reason.” She turned her face away from his as if she couldn’t bear to look at him another moment more. “Why am I here?”
He turned to his first mate. “Why have you brought her?”
Grayson scratched his grizzled chin. “Well, Cap’n, I found her in ye cave, and I though ’tis best I brung her.”
“Good.” Rafe turned to his new captive. “Who are you, girl?”
She lifted her blazing amber stare to face him, the previous emotions deepening and arousing the sleeping beast of desire within. “I will tell you if you let me go.”
He took a reflexive step forward and gripped her slender arms. “Not until you tell me, will I let you go.” Lust nipped at Rafe’s loins as he visually caressed her face. Strong cheekbones framed her face, almost seemingly created by the finest sculptor, making for a perfect setting for her pert nose.
She lifted her determined jaw. “India.”
“What an unusual name. Tell me, how did you come by it?”
“My parents named me after the country I was born in.”
He reallocated his position. From the angle of her jaw to the curve of her cheek, she enticed him. He looked down again. She possessed a body he could see himself buried in all night. Gentle curves graced her form, from the gentle slope of her feminine shoulders to the indent of her waist. He could only imagine the treasures between those slender thighs — his rod lengthened beneath his breeches. He shifted uneasily. “What’s your last name?”
“Rookwood.”
A cold chill passed up Rafe’s spine, and he stiffened. That damned name! He ground his teeth in order to keep his emotions at bay. “Since I keep my promises, I will let you go, but not before I have shown you my hospitality as well as begged your forgiveness.” He cast a glance to Grayson. “Take her to my cabin where she may wash in privacy.”
Grayson tipped his fingers. “Aye, Cap’n.” With that, Grayson guided India Rookwood from his sight to his cabin where she could clean up a bit.
Rafe smiled. What fortunate luck his enemy’s daughter had fallen right into his hands, though he had not properly laid a trap for her, at least not yet. Rookwood would probably be worried sick. From what he knew of the evil bastard, he would stop at nothing to rescue his precious pawn. Well, Rookwood’s search for his daughter would be useless. By the time Rafe did as he wished with her, the only good place for the girl would be a brothel or convent. After that, his revenge would be complete, and Ophelia’s honor restored.
Rafe waited for Grayson to return then signaled his first mate over. The older man limped over and tipped his short, grubby fingers. “Tell the men to gather everything on board.”
Grayson’s gray eyebrows shot up. “We settin’ sail so soon?”
“Yes. Be ready at eight bells.”
Share your muse with us! How do you get them to cooperate?
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