"Set in an experimental sci-fi comic book action adventure literary world-building project universe of multi-book series nested within other book series, 'The Zeppoverse' may be a bit disorienting to navigate at first... but you kind get used to it...
Since 5:30 this morning... the page remained blank.
Almost twelve whole hours. A long hard day, when your only goal is to fill that page, and all you have is a shit-storm of angst in your head.
He has hardly moved from his chair the entire day. Tears have slowly seeped and welled up in his eyes and coursed down his face in a slow-motion steady flow.... but no words.
On a good day, the words flow. This was not a good day. He had not had a good day in a long, long time.
He knew the exact amount of time, sort of. He didn't bother with the minutes, that was one layer of tedious too many, even for his lucid and quicksilver mind.
3 months, two weeks, four days, and 7 hour.
That's how long it had been since she walked out that door, taking everything he valued, cherished, and needed- her love. Since that moment, the words have not flowed. The words dried up. The flow was not blocked, it had evaporated away to nothingness.
It's amazing how slowly 4 months could crawl by, each week feeling like a year, each day an eternity.
It was slowly driving him mad.
Everything had been going so well. The world was becoming so vivid. The characters were weaving their own little mysteries for themselves as his hands merely channeled their personae and transmuted the images and words they send him into keystrokes. Her love in his life seemed to amplify his ability to just flow.
He was not one of those technical writers, that built maps and charts and profiles. Not that he judged those tools. He often wished that they made sense to him. Clearly, they worked for many other writers. It was just that those tools were alien and inscrutable to him. He was an intuit. A diviner. He could never plan his creations that way.
His work.... the words simply poured out of his fingers through the keypad and onto the screen.
When he would write, he would simply sit and wait. Transmission from the Muses would possess him for hours at a time and the words would flow. This state, was almost always mildly enhanced by the presence of a real-life lover to embody and channel the energies of the Muses. This made experiencing his lovemaking something most women found both addictive and a little overwhelming.
Some past lovers had called him an empath. Some have called him a sex god.
Others have seen only his failure. His lack of fame, of fortune, of a more successful career path. They had been attracted to him for his swarthy bohemian Artist personae. They had all praised the sexiness of his creative genius. They had all totally failed to understand the real nature of his talent. He was a conduit.
He could only write that which the Muse Goddesses sent him to write.
If the connection to them was not alive and thriving with energy, they would not send him inspiration. The connection almost always withered and faltered when one of his past lovers would leave him. But this time... something was different.
His connection to the muses had not withered away organically as it often had at the end of a tryst or relationship.
It had been violently severed, slashed, and butchered by his lover in the act of leaving him. Now... it was simply dead.
Nothing... not the tiniest of indications that the connection was recovering from the brutal break-up.
This new lack...
this emptiness....
was slowly killing him.
And the page sat empty, taunting.
Blank.
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