Let me tell you a story. A story about a young woman who met a boy. She considered him a boy because, while he was twenty-one, he was still several years younger than her. She got to know this boy fairly well and enjoyed every moment they happened to get to spend together, which was actually quite frequent as they worked together. This boy inspired so many stories inside her, one of which she actually sat down and wrote. She never told him this, as a woman is a well of many secrets, and she tucked the story away after perfecting it.
Time passed, the boy moved away, she quit the job. Life went on.
The young woman continued to draw on her muse for inspiration, knowing he was the best muse she’d ever had because he was real. Flesh and blood. One day she was going through her stories and found the one she’d written for him. Feeling a burst of bravery, she submitted it for publication. After a month or so of waiting she received an email. It had been accepted!! She was actually going to get paid a nice amount for it as well. It was the first piece she’d ever written that had been accepted for publication. Later that night she sat alone in her office, remembering her muse and wondering how he’d been.
More time passed and she thought about her muse less and less. He eventually became an occasional thought, triggered by a little reminder here or there. Though she continued to write, she would have creative droughts that lasted for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. Her drive, her inspiration, it really was dissipating.
One night, during a three month walk through an uninspired barren wasteland, he came to her in a dream. They talked of old times in the dream, about what was going on in their lives now, and she even got to meet the child he’d apparently had since they’d last talked. The last thing he said to her before she woke up was, “Don’t forget.”