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Daily blog: Nov. 3: My Muse is Dead!

November 3, 2015
My brother Tom's linoleum floor had been mended with care.  After he died I was struck by the beauty.

My brother Tom’s linoleum floor had been mended with care. After he died I was struck by the beauty.

November 3, 2015

Last night at Russell Rowland’s writing workshop I learned that my muse is dead. I thought I had a muse. At first I thought she was just asleep, but now I know she is gone forever. This is a crying shame. I am not crying, though. Instead I feel bitter and hateful toward my muse, such as she was.

God damn muse! I feel anger seething beneath my surface.

Stephen King, one of today’s greatest writers, said not to count on a muse. In turn I ask, who the hell does a muse think she is anyway? I thought she was some kind of spiritual being who whispered into my ear and told me what to write. Turns out the muse is a slut. A dirty rotten whore.

Actually, sluts and whores, as it turns out, are neither dirty nor rotten. As the Beatles famously sang, “She was a working girl, north of England way.” The queen, I think. Or else a whore.

Therefore, I declare that it is about time we honored people of all sorts, eh? Yes. I would be proud to be counted among the whores and the sluts. I cannot understand how I came to this theme in my writing. Perhaps I shouldn’t have cursed my muse after all. I think my muse is cursing me back.

At this time I want to write a brief summation of my writings.

1. chronicling my effort to find out about my maternal uncle Carl Ralph Bonde, Jr. I am using every avenue of research I kind find.

2. history of my uncle Carl using the fruit of the research in item 1.

3. semi-biographical story of Carl using all of my best information along with my imagination and life experiences.

4. family history of the Bondes back to the Norwegian king described as fair-haired.

5. history of the amazing Bonde women.

6. Old North Trail captures the imagination and begs for a longish narrative.

7. Struckman history coincides with Bonde at my own conception. I, zygote.

8. my own narrative starts at Fort Missoula. It ends in jail.

9. my own narrative starts in jail, ends in Alaska with a Volkswagen.

Each of these themes interweaves the others. At every point I must have a fireplace burning for warmth.

Most importantly, I must add to this narrative daily. Please check my website:

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