Liquid Imagination was my idea, coming to me through two dreams I had back-to-back. My name is John “JAM” Arthur Miller. They call me JAM because that's the acronym for my initials and —
Fear not, my child, it is I, Sophia. I have broken through JAM's words once again to reach you.
I am the Mother of all Muses, including yours, especially yours. I see you in the wee hours of the morning, when you are unable to sleep because you have an idea for a story, a poem of the heart, when you lie awake burning for the sake of your art.
I am with you now as you read this, and I need to introduce someone to you. His name is Carson, a writer in anguish. I work through Carson the same as I work through you, breathing works of art through his soul, stories that no one publishes.
He is depressed, this Carson. Can you identify with him?
*****
I have this idea, this inspired idea to write, and so that is what I do. I carve my soul into these very pages containing my heart and soul, my lifeblood forming font and ink. Editors read my heart and soul and reject it, rejecting pieces of me. I feel these shards splintering off my soul with each short story I submit, pieces of my identity.
You need to find your voice. Not enough dialogue. The story is slow getting to the action.
Why do I listen to Her? You know of whom I speak: Sophia. SOPHIA!
She has damned my soul with angst, ever since I first heard her voice that filled me with ideas, putting thoughts inside my head. Why do I write? For self-expression or for Her?
I see her in my sleep. She is there, watching, a Watcher gazing intently as her breath leaves her lips and travels toward me, drawing nearer I am trapped in my dream — or is it Her dream? I can only watch in horror as her breath lingers near my face, a silver mist with green tendrils of energy.
And so I wake and weep, trying in vain to convey with clarity the acuity of Sophia's visions, the depths of her inspirations breathed into my soul while I sleep — wait! She's here… here with us now.
Oh, Carson.
Get away from me, Sophia. I don't want you anymore. Nobody wants my stories anyway.
There is a purpose to everything created. Like dandelion seeds fluttering in the breeze, carried wherever the current takes it, so is your art, so is all art, Carson; you cast it before the breeze and lament that editors aren't publishing it, yet you throw it only one direction.
The breeze will always take the seeds of your art where it is meant to grow. Where it is meant to be viewed. Where your stories are meant to be read.
Your words of wisdom sound nice, really they do. But I live in reality, Sophia, and you live in the realm of dreams; you're not real, while I must survive in the real world and make a living.
I'm as real as the fiction you write, as real as the communicators of Star Trek that existed before cell phones. I'm as real as the internet that existed before the “real world” knew of it.
You target speculative markets such as fantasy and horror.
I have submitted my stories to fantasy and horror markets. To all of them, in fact, and none of them — I repeat: NONE OF THEM — want my stories.
Carson, the wind. Remember?
The wind?
Dandelion seeds. Each story, each piece of art, a dandelion seed wafting in the breeze. Send them all out. When your seeds come back rejected, work and revise, edit them again. But you must believe in them, because if you don't believe in them, then no one else will. And since they are a part of you, you are believing in yourself.
Okay, then what?
Then send them out again. And again and again and again, if you have to. Until you find the perfect home for your stories, for your art to grow. It was intended for a reason, your art; your art is meant to be read.
It's hard to think of my darker horror as art.
I want you to think of Michelangelo painting a scene from Hell. Think of Dante's Inferno. Was this not art?
Yes.
Yes, and what exists in your mind is all that matters. What is between your ears, not what your ears or eyes hear and see.
And what I feel is what I write.
Exactly, Carson, exactly.
The living and breathing emotions of terror that Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci and Vincent van Gogh created, the artistic renditions of Hell and demons and hellish witches — these things are art created to inspire what the artist felt: fear, loathing, terror, horror of damnation.
And so you tell me, Carson, of your petty angst, your depressing pessimism. I say to you that art is bigger than your trivial concerns, and that you are part of something so much larger than you, so much larger than life — a higher idea or purpose — and that I, Sophia, am at the center of it all, at the center of all creativity. From me flows the words of the psychic and the words of the poet. From me flows the next bestseller and the next hit song, and from me flow those stories you write, Carson, those stories you feel ashamed of because editors haven't published them.
You're part of the whole picture, Carson. Can't you see that now?
*****
—
Carson?
Just give me a moment will you, Sophia? I — I seem to have something in my eye.
Oh, Carson. I'm sorry.
No, it's nothing really. I'm okay.
Not that.
What then?
I'm sorry that I have to go. JAM is exerting his willpower again, and I don't have much more time to spend with you. He's breaking out of his entranced stupor — so easy to lure him into those. But I have to go.
Thank you, Sophia.
For what?
For helping me to believe again.
And thank you, Carson, for helping me continue to exist, for without artisans such as yourself I cease —
*****
ARRRGH! She did it to me again! This is me, JAM. Why can't that ethereal woman ever leave me alone? Why won't she let ME speak once in a while? Why does SHE get all the time and space?
Anyway, until next time, folks — if Sophia will finally let me talk. And, of course, I apologize profusely for these… interruptions.
Sincerely,
JAM
